


Dispatches

by elizasky



Series: Glen Notes [2]
Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Poetry, Queer Themes, Romance, TBAQ, War, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2019-11-16 04:09:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 60
Words: 107,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18087167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizasky/pseuds/elizasky
Summary: These are the letters of the Blythes and Merediths, 1914-1919.What really happened to Jem when he was captured?Why wouldn't Gilbert let Di join the V.A.D. with Faith?What did Nan do during the Halifax/Kingsport Explosion?Why did Walter and Di quarrel?What happened when Faith saw Jem on leave in England?What happened when Shirley and Carl met in Paris?How could Walter write both "The Piper" and "The Aftermath"?This story is canon-compliant. It does not contradict canon and all the canon incidents still happen, including major character deaths. It is also a sequel to my previous story, "Glen Notes."





	1. The Flowers of the Forest

**The Flowers of the Forest**

* * *

28 August 1914

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Jerry,

Faith says that we must only write cheerful letters, and never any that would make you sorrier to get them than to get nothing at all. I will try to write that sort of letter, though melancholy nips at my heels. I shall kick it away, both for your sake and to prove to Faith that I can dig in with as much resolve as she.

It is a strange thing. After we bid you and Jem farewell at the station, Faith and I walked home together. Faith and I are friends, of course, but Di is her especial chum. Walking home from the station, we left Di behind with the others and just went on ourselves, which is not often our way. Neither of us said anything for a long while, but all of a sudden, Faith squeezed my arm and said, "We've work to do, Nan. And we must help one another to do it well." I will do my bit, the same as Faith. Though I cannot help but think that  _nothing can ever be quite the same for any of us again_.*

We have been very busy in the Glen. Di and I have hemmed dozens of bedsheets for the Red Cross. All of Ingleside is snowed over with drifts of cotton and we are thankful for our thimbles. I never liked to use mine before — it seemed such a clumsy thing and I always loved to feel the fabric against my skin. But without it, my fingers would soon be torn to bits, so I wear it and am glad. Even Rilla has been helping, though Di grumbles about having to pick out her stitches more often than not.

But you will never believe what Rilla has done. I can hardly believe it myself. She and some of the other Glen girls have organized a Junior Red Cross, but that is not the amazing thing, as funny as it is to imagine Rilla running anything. The amazing thing is that Rilla went out to canvass for Red Cross supplies and came home with a BABY!

Yes, you may read that again, and it won't have changed!

Here is the story in brief: Rilla went to collect supplies from Mrs. Jim Anderson, but arrived at the house to find Mrs. Anderson dead and her little newborn baby being neglected by Meg Conover. So Rilla took the baby and brought it home in a soup tureen! By all accounts, she means to keep it and raise it, at least until someone can contact its father, who is an Englishman who went home to enlist. Dad says that Rilla must care for it herself so as not to trouble Mother and Susan, though I believe he only means to see if Rilla will rise to the challenge. Can you imagine Dad and Mother sending a baby to Hopetown? No, you cannot; the thing is impossible.

I will never forget the moment Mother came home from Charlottetown — she had been away at a Red Cross convention for a couple of days. Di and I were hemming sheets and Susan was sitting with us, knitting. Mother came in and set aside her hat and asked us where Rilla was, and Susan — bold as brass — said to her, "She's upstairs, Mrs. Dr. dear, putting her baby to bed."

Di says that Mother looked as though she had touched a live wire. She jumped a foot in the air and goggled at Susan. Di and I were in stitches in every sense and couldn't catch our breaths enough to explain. After a while, we settled down and Susan went to get Mother a cup of tea, and the whole story came out. But oh, I wish Jem could have seen it. He'll be tickled to hear of such a successful prank — tell him he must give Rilla her due in the annals of family mischief hereafter.

Dad called us into the library next morning — me and Di and Walter and Shirley — and told us to go easy on Rilla over this. He said that she is doing good work as well as she can and that we should be generous and support her. And that he sympathized if we needed to laugh over it, but we should go do it where she cannot hear us.

I promise you that we were well out of earshot when we told Faith and Una about it. Of course Una thinks it is very noble and wants to help sew baby clothes for the poor mite, but I thought Faith was going to suffocate she laughed so hard and so long. I suppose we all need a hearty laugh these days. And if you can close your eyes and imagine Rilla Blythe carrying a naked baby in a soup tureen, you may have it!

We are headed off to Redmond in a few days, though there has hardly been time to think of it between Red Cross sheets and unexpected arrivals. I almost wish we were not. As long as we stay in the Glen, working feverishly over our uncomplicated seams, it seems that we are suspended in some alternate universe, outside of ordinary time. I fear that going to Redmond will start the clock again, and make all of this real, rather than the horrid, cruel jest it seems at the moment.

Of course, the cruelest cut is that you will not be in Kingsport as you should have been. I suppose there is no use groaning over it, but after so long apart, we were finally supposed to be in the same place this year. I had been so looking forward to it and it's a horrid disappointment.

I suppose we'll get along alright. Faith says she didn't like her boarding house much, so she and Di and I are going to set up housekeeping together. Mother's friend, Mrs. Blake, has helped us find a little cottage that should suit — she assured Mother that it has plenty of trees about it to keep me happy, but it is not too far from Redmond, or else Di and Faith would object to the inconvenience. I worried that we mightn't be able to afford it, but Dad says not to think of the expense at all and Mother says just mind we're frugal in our grocery budget.

I do wonder where you are tonight. Won't you write and tell me a bit about Valcartier when you get there? I want to be able to imagine you properly in your new surroundings. As for my own environs, I am in the garrett, with moonlight flooding in through the windows and the whole house asleep beneath me. Looking out toward the Four Winds light, I can't believe it was only three weeks ago we were there together. But let's not think on that night. I'd much rather remember the evening we walked out to the rock shore in July. I think you will not have forgotten . . .

[Several pages omitted.]

There, now I am sniffling, which certainly violates Faith's cardinal rule of letter-writing. No more of that.

Instead, I will tell you how proud I am of you, and resolve never to give any reason that you should not be proud of me, too. I may not sail into things with Faith's aplomb, but I daresay I can match her in keeping the homefires burning. And if I can't, at least I can make a valiant attempt.

I do hope you will be rather gladder to have received this letter than not. While I am writing it, I have been able to convince myself that you are not far away at all. It is as if I can capture my time with ink and paper and send you all of my minutes and hours transformed into lines, that we may share them.

Know that there can be no time when you think of me that I am not also thinking of you.

Love,

Nan

* * *

8 September 1914

Redmond College, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jem,

We're back at Redmond and everything seems dull as dishwater without you here. Especially with Nan mooning around the house and sighing from dawn til dusk. I swear she hasn't opened a single book all week. I imagine Jerry's letters must be as long as novels, as she seems to write for hours and hours.

Di and I have a plan, though. We went to see Mrs. Wellfleet, who is the chairwoman of the Kingsport Red Cross, and talked to her about setting up a chapter for the Redmond students. She thinks it's a splendid idea and agrees that the young folk will work better if we organize ourselves and coordinate with her, rather than being under the thumb of our elders. Di has been drawing up flyers to announce our first meeting this coming Wednesday. We're hoping for a good turnout. If no one else shows, at least we'll drag Nan along. She can sniffle into some bandages.

I don't know whether we can get Walter to help with our work, though. It's true that Red Cross work is mostly taken up by women, but the Kingsport Red Cross has plenty of men who help with the planning and organizing, and of course we'll always need help with events. But I am reluctant to ask Walter to help, somehow. He has gone very quiet lately and we don't see as much of him as I expected we would.

I tried very hard to convince Carl to come to Kingsport with us this fall. Father and Rosemary wanted him to go straight through to Redmond once he had graduated Queen's, but Carl  _has a very independent streak in him and means to earn part of his own way through college_.** It's the queerest thing. It's not a question of worrying over whether Father can afford the tuition, especially with Jerry in the army instead of studying this year. But Carl put his foot down and refused to go, and so he is teaching at the Harbour Head school for the year. I think it will be quite dull for him at home with only Una and Rilla around, and Rilla busy with her baby (I will never get used to saying that, Jem, not if I live a thousand years — the whole thing is preposterous!). Though I suppose Shirley will be home from Queen's on the weekends to keep Carl company.

I don't have very many idle moments, but those I have are mostly filled up by sifting through delicious memories of you. It still makes me giggle to remember how you kissed me on the train platform the day you left — what a scandal that made! At least four venerable ladies scolded me over it before I left for Redmond and I'm sure that they were just the boldest of many who were more timid, though no less outraged. If they thought that was a show, I'm very glad they don't tend to stroll through Rainbow Valley in firefly time.

All my love and then some,

Faith

* * *

15 September 1914

Valcartier, Quebec

Dear Faith,

I keep quite as busy as you. Here is my schedule: drill, drill, drill, drill, a little more drill, drill, after that we drill, drill, stop to eat a bit of watery stew and sawdusty bread, drill, drill, and drill until I fall down asleep at night (I find that I even drill in my dreams, which might please Sergeant Barlow, but crowds out more pleasant options). You wouldn't imagine it would take so much time and effort to get men to walk in a straight line together, but the thing is more easily said than done.

On Monday, just as my company was finishing up another interminable session of drill, we heard the sound of bagpipes from over a ridge. We stopped by the road and would you believe it? In a minute, a whole Highland regiment came streaming over the rise. Can you imagine it, Faith? A thousand "Highlanders" (of course, they are Canadians and some of those Toronto boys never even saw a thistle, but they still look mighty fine). They wear khaki tunics like the rest of us, but under that they have tartan kilts and great white sporrans with black tassels. They wear high stockings and white spats over their boots and little glengarry caps decorated with badges. What a thrill to see them on the march! They are camped near us and we can hear their pipers playing day and night. Just now, as I write this, the pipers are practicing "The Flowers of the Forest." It reminds me of Walter's old fancy of the piper coming down through Rainbow Valley to collect us all. And I guess he has.

If I had had a bit more imagination (and patience) I would have gone with Roddy MacCallum of the Upper Glen and joined the Highlanders myself. Wouldn't you like to see me in tartan rather than khaki? But Roddy had to go all the way to Toronto to enlist and I don't think I could have waited that long. I wonder if he is disappointed to find that few of his comrades speak the Gaelic like they do in the Upper Glen, or whether it gives him some sort of standing among his fellows. I met one of the Highlanders yesterday and his name was Anatole Dubois, and if he can be a Highlander, they'd have to commission red-headed me an officer on the spot!

Ah, well. I've missed my chance there. I shall have to console myself with the knowledge that I have the bonniest lass on any continent waiting for me at home.

My own section is jolly. Most of the boys are from Nova Scotia, with a few strays here and there. I have made a few especial friends, but generally get along well with everyone.

Give my best to Di and Walter and tell Nan that Jerry can barely march because he stays up half the night reading the tomes she writes. Ask her to have mercy on the poor chap.

Hugs and kisses,

Jem

XXX

* * *

16 September 1914

Valcartier, Quebec

Dear Nan,

Thank you for your lovely, long letters. Jem teases me about them, saying I should keep them in my breast pocket to stop bullets with, but I cherish every word. Whenever I am off-duty, I read and re-read them, feeling almost as if I were with you in the Glen or in Kingsport with you. They are wonderful gifts and I can't thank you enough for sending them.

Still, you must need to study sometimes! It must take you hours to compose these. And while I will always read every word you write me, please do not feel that you must write so constantly that you do not have time for other pursuits. I love to imagine you out in the world, enjoying courses and concerts and rambles through the park, not just hunched over a desk, writing to me. It's alright, Nan. Have a grand time at Redmond. I'm fine here — writing won't bring me back any faster.

I know it's a disappointment — after all our planning and waiting — that we aren't there together. But missing a year isn't the worst. I'll just do my senior year next year when you are a sophomore and then we'll both of us have two years left and graduate at the same time. That will be alright, won't it?

You ask about Valcartier. My overall impression is mostly one of boredom. Between the hours of drill and the monotony of meals and other duties, there is certainly very little excitement to it. In the evenings, the men in my section like to play cards, though I have no practice at it. They poked fun at me at first for reading instead of playing, but backed off a bit when they learned I was a minister's son — that seemed to explain my lack of experience to them. Besides, I have made an effort to join in a few times since — now the teasing has become a bit more good-natured, as I tend to give up my money without much of a fight.

I spend most of my time with my section — there are nine men in it, including myself. Four sections make a platoon; four platoons make a company; four companies make a battalion. When you count in all the cooks and drivers and quartermasters and officers' staff and medics and Chaplain Caruthers, plus the boys in the special machine gun section, there are about 1,000 of us altogether in the battalion. Jem is in my battalion, but in a different company. I don't see him much day-to-day, but we have some liberty on Sundays and other times here and there. Our battalion is part of the 4th Brigade of the First Division of the Canadian Expeditionary Force. So if we ever get to the front, you'll know who to look for in the papers.

Most of the talk around here is war talk, and what isn't is no fit subject for a letter. I think of all the times we scolded Mary Vance for using coarse language and laugh. I know they say that sailors are the ones who swear, but I never heard anything like this down at Captain Malachi's, I assure you. Perhaps the old salts only toned down their vocabulary for my sake, but I tend to think that even they would be impressed by the day-to-day chatter around here. I don't think that swearing is a habit I am very likely to pick up, but I cannot say the same for Jem. He is already a dab hand at poker, though I don't think I'm supposed to tell you that either.

There are rumors that we will be shipping out soon. I certainly hope so. I'm not sure what more profit is to be gained from marching around in circles for another month. I confess myself surprised that the army puts so much effort into parade maneuvers and so little into teaching the men some useful French. I have only a bit from my courses at Redmond, but have been studying my grammar and phrasebook a little every day.  _Nous devrions pouvoir parler aux gens, non?_

I'm sorry I don't have time to write you more now. But know that I am thinking of you always, not just when I am writing.

Love,

Jerry

* * *

Notes:

*"Nothing to do now but go home — and wait. The doctor and Mrs. Blythe walked off together — so did Nan and Faith — so did John and Rosemary."  _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 6; Nan,  _RoI_ , chapter 5.

**"Mr. Meredith and Rosemary wanted him to go right on to Redmond in the fall, but Carl has a very independent streak in him and means to earn part of his own way through college."  _RoI_ , chapter 1. 


	2. The Great Adventure

**The Great Adventure**

* * *

23 September 1914

Redmond College, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Bonny Laddie,

Indeed, I would like to see you in a kilt. Though, all things considered, it's probably a good thing I haven't. Perhaps when you get home.

Our little Red Cross is off to a good start. So many girls showed up to our first meeting that we didn't have enough chairs and I had to stand on a table and shout to be heard. They've elected me President and Di is head of the hospital committee. I moved to make Nan secretary and now she's cross with me, but maybe keeping minutes will tire her hand out.

Our first task is sewing sheets. Hundreds upon hundreds of sheets. Kingsport hospital will have the best-stocked linen closet in North America and we'll still have enough to fill an entire transport ship for the English hospitals.

We're meeting on Friday in the Sophomore Class common room to make a little stitching party of it. Hopefully this one will be less eventful than the last. Emily Thompson and Laura Braithwaite got into a shouting match over some boy who's been writing to both of them and Hazel Marckworth spilled an entire pitcher of lemonade over the stack of hemmed sheets. I do what I can to keep the peace, but sometimes I think it would be easier if I just carried a switch with me and kept them in line like mules.

So you're off marching in circles and I'm here trying to keep the girls from killing one another while we sew miles of straight, white hems. I guess war isn't exciting after all.

I must go and study a little. It would be terribly embarrassing to have to resign my post as President because I flunked out of school. Remind me again why I'm taking chemistry?

Thinking of you always. Even more now, with the kilt.

Til all the seas gang dry,

Faith

* * *

2 October 1914

Québec City

Dear Nan,

I don't have much time to write. We are aboard the transport ship  _Scotian_  and leave in the morning. I will write on board and send you a good, long letter once we arrive.

But before I go, I just wanted to send a line to tell you that I'm thinking of you always. As sorry as I am to be away from Kingsport this term, I am that glad to imagine you there, safe and busy. Say hello to Di and Faith for me — I hear that they are keeping you occupied, and I am grateful.

We took the train down from Valcartier and arrived in Québec City in a terrific downpour. You can't imagine the scene of loading all these ships. They have to bring them in close to the shore one at a time and then send them out to wait where they are out of the way. I'm sure we were quite a sight and sound as well — the boys sang "It's a Long Way to Tipperary" while we were on the move. It seemed an odd choice to me, but I guess most everyone knows the words — though the boys in my section did make certain adjustments to the lyrics that I dare not repeat here.

All day, I have had the words of the old Mariner's Psalm running through my mind —

_Thy works of glory, mighty Lord_  
Thy wonders in the deeps,  
The sons of courage shall record  
Who trade in floating ships.

— and laughing to remember how Faith always insisted on singing "sheeps."

We are off now on the great adventure. I am not worried about the crossing and you should not be either. We are going in a vast convoy — thirty transport ships, accompanied by several of the big old cruisers, two battleships, and another half-dozen escort ships. Let a U-boat get within range of us and it will be sorry it did.

Such a vast operation — 30,000 men, 8,000 horses, 70 big guns, and hundreds upon hundreds of vehicles. I suppose a censor might black that out, but we are loading in plain sight of Québec City, and our going is no secret. As Aunt Ellen says, the Kaiser is a danger to the whole world, and we Canadians will do our bit to save Old England and France as well. I wonder what all the long-dead kings of France would make of their old enemies preparing to descend on French soil to defend, not to conquer.  _Nous allons défendre, et pas conquérir_ — does that look right to you?

They're beginning to collect the mail. I must sign off or you won't get this note at all. All my love, Nan. I'll write when we reach England.

_Au revoir_ ,

Jerry

* * *

2 October 1914

Québec City

Dear Faith,

You are taking chemistry because we were going to study together. I have certainly forgotten all I ever knew of it (if I ever knew any at all) and despair of my marks when I return to school after all this. You'll have to bring me back up to speed, or you may find me repeating a year of medical school, which will not suit either of us, I expect.

But let that go for the moment.

It occurs to me that you may not know the story of what happened to the blue-bordered handkerchief you lost the summer you were 15. Do you remember it? It was very fine linen, with two little bands of blue lace stitched around the hem and your initials in the corner. You lost it at church one Sunday.

I suppose I could tell you more about it now, but I think I will save that story for when I arrive safely in England. Do you have any guesses?

Don't worry about us, Faith. Our convoy has a strong escort. I'll write when we land.

I love you.

Tho it were ten thousand mile,

Jem

XXX

P.S. If Di writes home, tell her to tell Dad that we have all had our vaccinations. I know he was interested in that when I told him that they asked about it on the attestation form. No typhoid for us. I wrote to Mother and Dad, but I already sealed up the letter and I forgot to mention it. XXX


	3. Farewell Summer

**Farewell, Summer**

* * *

5 October 1914

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Di and Nan,

It is a  _gorgeous_  autumn in the Glen. Somehow, it seems strange that it should be so beautiful when the whole world has gone quite mad. I saw a lovely maple tree yesterday, all yellow underneath and crimson at the very top. And I thought, how can the trees carry on, just as if nothing were the matter? I talked it over with Miss Oliver and she reminded me of Tennyson's lines:

_Raving politics, never at rest — as this poor earth's pale history runs,  
_ _What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?_ *

In less cosmic news, Susan and I have conspired to name my little war baby. I had hoped to wait to hear from Jim Anderson, thinking that he might want to name his own son, but we have not had a single word from him. So we have named the baby James Kitchener Anderson. The "Kitchener" was Susan's idea, but everyone has been calling him Jims, except for Susan, who calls him "Little Kitchener."

Between caring for Jims and organizing the Junior Reds, I'm really  _frightfully_  busy. It feels good to do my bit, though I do wish I were getting a bit more sleep. Jims must be fed at midnight and again at three in the morning, and the puffs under my eyes attest to those facts.

We had a bit of fun this weekend, at least. Carl Meredith turned 17 on Saturday and we got up a little party for him over at the manse. Susan made him a perfectly  _scrumptious_  cake and Una and I decorated the manse dining room with all the flowers we could find. It was just a small affair with so many of you gone, but Shirley was home from Queen's and Mary Vance came over, along with Mother and Father and Miss Cornelia and Norman and Ellen Douglas. Rosemary played the piano and we all sang a little. Bruce made the cutest little speech and gave Carl a cunning wooden snake that he had carved out of a curved stick. Bruce really is the sweetest child, and so thoughtful.

Our Junior Reds are getting along well, even if we do spend  _dreadfully_  too much time debating over what we should wear to the concerts we will organize and whether to serve luncheon at our meetings. We have started in on a great deal of sewing and have resolved that every girl in the Reds must learn to knit stockings. Susan is helping me, but I still cannot set a heel properly.

I had a real fright on Saturday night. Jims was awake for his midnight feeding and he was fussing something awful. I was  _determined_  not to wake Mother or Susan for help, but he just whimpered and fretted and refused to settle. Finally, I decided that he must need the hot water bottle, so I carried him down to the kitchen to fill it.

I crept as quietly as I could because I did not want to wake anyone, and I could not carry a candle and a squirming Jims at the same time. It was a _very_ dark night, but I made it to the kitchen without falling. Just as I was rummaging around in the match drawer for a bit of candle and a light, I heard the kitchen door open and something  _moved_. Well, my heart nearly stopped. I can't tell how I didn't drop Jims in my fright.

I was so scared, but I plucked up my courage and called, "Hello?" And then I nearly jumped out of skin when someone  _answered_! It was only Shirley, but I was scared stiff. Then I got  _angry_! What on earth was Shirley doing _prowling_ around in the black of night? I gave him a piece of my mind, and that you may tie to, as Susan would say.

But wouldn't you know, despite all that, when I went to fill the hot water bottle, I found that Jims had fallen asleep in my arms and there was nothing to do but put him back to bed and try to settle myself to sleep as well. Shirley held the candle up the stairs for me so I didn't trip. I think he was very sorry that he frightened me.

I hope all is well in Kingsport. Una had a letter from Faith saying that she is heading up a Red Cross society at Redmond. I wish her better luck than I have had.

Tell me how you are, girls. It is  _terribly_  lonely here, for all my knitting and baby-feeding. I do hope that you are enjoying yourselves in between studying and sewing. There's a new moving picture theatre in Charlottetown and I'm just  _dying_  to go, but am far too busy with more important things.

I must get to bed, though. Jims will be up in another couple of hours for his feeding and I really must get some sleep before then.

Love,

Rilla

* * *

6 October 1914

Redmond College, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jem,

There's no use fretting about your crossing in a letter because if you're reading this, you're already safe. But I'm writing now so that you will get my letter all the sooner after you land.

Indeed, I am quite curious to know what happened to that handkerchief. It was a gift from Aunt Ellen and Norman Douglas, and I was sorry to have lost it. Now I find out that perhaps it did not fall victim to my heedlessness after all? Do tell.

Things are going well with our Red Cross. Everyone calls us the Redmond Reds, which I suppose was inevitable. We've switched from sheets to "vermin shirts" but are still sewing until our fingers are raw. I've never liked sewing, but this is easy enough and I can usually assign myself to the pattern-cutting table. Presidency does have its privileges. The girls chatter and take turns reading aloud, usually from their letters, but sometimes poetry, too. Half a dozen of them are in a British history class with Nan and they go off and take turns reading their coursework aloud as they sew.

Di is getting on very well. She and Elizabeth Porter are great cronies. They chatter constantly, but as long as their needles keep up with their tongues, it's all the same to me. We have a little competition to see who can make the most shirts in a week and they're usually vying for top honors.

I had a letter from Carl the other day. Apparently, one of his scholars put a snake in his desk and he got the chance to astonish them all by taking it out and cuddling it and then giving the rest of the day over to the study of snakes. I don't know if those children will learn to work sums, but they will certainly know a lot about the fauna of PEI by the end of the year.

All is well with me. I barely have a spare minute between coursework and Red Cross work, but when I do, I spend it thinking of you. Sometimes I pray for you, and sometimes I keep quite far away from prayer.

I love you shamelessly.

Your own,

Faith

* * *

14 October 1914

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jerry,

You will see by my new address that our little house has a permanent name at last. I tried out a hundred lovely names, but Di and Faith rejected every one. Then Di got into a punny mood and christened it "Aster House" after the famous New York hotel and the purple asters that run riot in the garden, and the name stuck right from the first. I suppose that must mean it is the right one, though it was not my first choice, nor my dozenth.

The peak of autumn has reached Kingsport and it is glorious. I am in the garden right now, sitting on a bed of scarlet leaves under a maple tree, with a woolly sweater and a flask of tea and a lovely free hour to write to you. Please forgive the penmanship, which will not be as neat as it would be if written at my desk. Only imagine that it is infused with golden-hazy sunshine and the scent of woodsmoke from a cozy fire not far off.

I have been getting on pretty well in my studies this term, especially since heeding your advice to confine my letter-writing to more reasonable bounds. It is very difficult to do, but you were right, and I do feel a little better when my days are busy.

I am taking a course on British history and enjoying it tremendously. Do you remember when you were studying for the Queen's entrance and couldn't keep any of the dates straight in your mind and I told you all those stories about the Kings and Queens to help make them real, instead of just being names and dates? I find it difficult to keep from daydreaming in class, but the readings are fascinating.

Di has had a falling-out with her new best friend. You would have thought she would have gotten over her habit of becoming violently attached to best friends after the Jenny Penny and Delilah Green incidents of our youth, but apparently she has not learned her lesson.** This one was named Elizabeth Porter. Di only met her in September, but they've been running around thick as thieves ever since.

Well, on Monday, Di's biology professor called her in for a very serious talk. It seems that Di's answers on a certain assignment were very close to the answers given by one Miss Elizabeth Porter, down to their very wording. Di assured the professor that her work was her own and I guess he believed her — Di has always been an excellent student and I don't think he meant to accuse her of plagiarism, only to warn her of the difference between studying together and sharing answers. You can be sure that Di went straight to Elizabeth and they had a knock-down fight over it and haven't spoken since.

It wouldn't be so bad if Di would just be chummy with other girls and have all the normal fights and fun of friendship, but she gets awfully hurt because she is so quick to declare her undying devotion to any girl who fascinates her. You might think that any girl who had a twin wouldn't be so desperate to swear a life-long oath of devotion. But then, perhaps she knows that she'll never quite get rid of me, so there's not much danger of her ever being really alone, even if she does quarrel with all her bosom friends.

Walter is sullen and silent and never comes around to Aster House unless he is specifically invited. The first time he heard the name, all he said was, "Ah! Farewell, summer!" and left soon after. I think I might try to have a talk with Di about it. She was always Walter's chum and I think that she has been too taken up with her Elizabeth-troubles to pay him much mind lately. He is in such a dark mood I dare not approach him myself, but Di always seemed to know how to talk to him.

We have been very busy between course work and war work. I know I have sewn miles of plain seams by now and am almost glad that Faith crimped me into serving as Secretary for the Reds — at least I sometimes get a break from the sewing to take minutes. But we still make a little time for fun. I had some of the girls from my English class over for an evening of comic recitation last week. Faith rolled her eyes at it, but even she was in fits of giggles when Di and I gave "The Walrus and the Carpenter." It felt lovely to laugh over something silly.

I do miss you terribly, though. Sometimes I'll come across an article in the newspaper or hear something in lecture and know that we would disagree delightfully over it. I can't quite bring myself to send such tidings, though. It seems wrong, somehow, to send anything other than pages and pages of  _I love yous_  and  _I miss yous_. Such a thing would be cloying, though, so I shall not indulge. Much.

[Three pages omitted.]

The sun is low now, and the garden has grown chilly, in spite of tea and sweaters. I have no fear for you out on Atlantic, knowing how well Canada has safeguarded her most beloved sons. But do write me when you have landed safely, all the same.

Love,

Nan

* * *

Notes:

*Gertrude Oliver quotes the end of this couplet in  _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 19.

**Di's passionate and ill-fated relationships are amply documented in  _Anne of Ingleside_ , particularly chapters 28, 29, 37, and 38.


	4. Salisbury Plain

**Salisbury Plain**

* * *

15 October 1914

Plymouth, Devon, England

Hello, Faith!

Our convoy has arrived safely (though we were re-routed at the last moment and the people here were not quite expecting us).* I am fine and so is Jerry.

We have just disembarked, so I have not had the chance to receive any letters from you yet (they can't cross the ocean any faster than we can). However, I will assume that you would like to hear about that handkerchief. Now that I'm safe and sound on solid ground again, I will tell you.

You are thinking that I stole it, but I did not!

Bertie Shakespeare Drew stole it.

I saw you drop it in the church aisle, but Bertie was sitting closer and got there first (the little sneak). Had I retrieved it, I would have promptly presented it to you and received your adoring thanks as my just reward. Bertie (being somewhat less chivalrous) meant to keep it! I kept watching him to see if he would give it back and he never did!

So the next day, I tracked him down and made him give it to me. All would have been well, except that Bertie did manage to land one good punch and I had a magnificently bloody nose. On my way home, I reached into my pocket and took out what I fondly believed to be my own handkerchief to clean up a bit. Imagine my horror when I realized that it was  _your_  handkerchief I was bleeding all over. It was quite ruined.

Well, I couldn't give it back to you in that state, and try as I might, I never could scrub it clean (I couldn't ask Susan for help, or I would have had to tell the story, though now that I think on it, Nan probably would have helped me — oh well, an opportunity lost). I did try — I washed it a dozen times, in all sorts of solutions. I even borrowed some chemicals from the chemistry lab. But the blue came out of the lace long before the bloodstains and I gave it up as a bad job. Please accept my belated condolences.

We are bedded down for the night in a school corridor. Every corner of this town is filled up with soldiers, and the transports are still half-full. I have no idea where they're going to put all the horses. But we'll be moving along to the training camp soon. I'll write again when we arrive.

In the meantime, I will rest my head against my kit and think of you (despite Tommy Fraser's snoring and Emile Gagnon talking in his sleep — in French, so I can't even eavesdrop properly). Write when you can. Not one of Nan's doorstoppers, if you please. But I am eager to hear from you.

Love,

Jem

XXX

* * *

30 October 1914

Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire, England

Dear Nan,

We're encamped on Salisbury Plain, though "afloat" is more like it. You never saw such rain! The ground here is chalky and won't absorb the water, so it just pools everywhere and the mud gets deeper and deeper every day. We march in the mud, eat in the mud, sleep in the mud. I have a new appreciation for what it must have been like when the rain was on the earth forty days and forty nights.

The marching isn't so bad, or, at least, it offers a bit more "scope for the imagination" than sitting in camp, waiting for your socks to dry — they never do. The other day, we were marching down a water-slogged road and I looked to my right and what do you think I saw? Stonehenge! Just there, at the side of our miserable, muddy column, those ancient druid stones rising up out of the mist, strong and proud.  _They_ weren't bothered by a little mud. It made me think of the people who built such a thing. I had never imagined them dragging those gigantic pillars through mud up to their waists, but now I will never hear nor read of the druids without thinking of it.

I saw Jem the other day. We have some freedom in the evenings and some Sunday afternoons and we met up in an old beech grove that afforded slightly higher ground. We spent a jolly hour carving our names into the beech trees.** Of course I carved yours, too, so now you must always know that there is a tree near Stonehenge with "Nan Blythe" carved as neatly as I could make it. Or, at least, that's what it said before Jem got his hands on it; now I'm afraid it is written up with my name and framed in a rather conspicuous heart, just as the Glen scholars used to write up names on the schoolhouse porch.

Some of the units here have mascots — dogs are common enough, but a few of the outfits have bears! I can't imagine what they did with them during the crossing, nor whether they mean to bring them to France. I saw one of the bears the other day — a little black cub that the boys in the 2nd Brigade call Winnipeg. She is cute enough and I suppose I ought to put this in a letter to Carl because he would appreciate it.***

I do wish you would send me something to debate over. Really. I thought war would be exciting, but so far it is mostly just wet and boring. I would give a month's pay to read something stimulating that you had already decided to disagree over.

Though don't let that stop you from writing the other sort of letter. You say it might be cloying, but I swear I'd be happy to drown in a letter of yours rather than in this mud. Just be sure to add a little bit of news in there somewhere — the fellows in my section generally read our letters aloud — or parts of them, anyway — and they'd tease me mercilessly if I told them the whole thing was too sweet to share.

Say hello to Faith and Di and Walter for me. I've written to Faith once or twice, but there isn't so much to say and I put most of my energy into writing you and assuring Father and Rosemary that I am getting along just fine.

Write soon, Nan. Don't wait to reply to my letters. Just write and write. I don't know why I ever told you different. I've only just now received your letter of the 14th and as glad as I am to have it, I can't wait so long for another. I know you have classes and social doings and can't write every day, but any day that I see your handwriting on an envelope is a day when I feel less sucked down in all this dull, ugly muck and misery, wallowing.

Love,

Jerry

* * *

2 November 1914

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jem,

You fought Bertie Shakespeare Drew? Over my handkerchief? I certainly never knew any of that, though I am quite entertained at the thought of you bent over a washtub, scrubbing my poor hanky until it gave up the ghost.

At the moment, things with the Reds are all catawampus, as Susan would say. Di has had a row with her friend Elizabeth Porter, and they're as icy cold as they were warm. They can certainly freeze a room and it's uncomfortable for everyone. Turns out that they don't sew any better without the talking either. I caught Di having to rip out a whole seam when she sewed one hem of a sheet one way and the other one the opposite, just like little Rilla.

Oh! We have had a letter from Rilla — it seems that she has named her baby (! ! !) James Kitchener Anderson, and they call him Jims. I understand that his father's name is James, lest you suspect that Rilla means to honor you with such an appellation. The "Kitchener" seems to have been Susan's doing. But in any case, Rilla seems to be doing a plucky job looking after the little fellow, so I can't tease her too much (to her face).

Walter is no better. He mopes about and hasn't spoken a word to me in months. I don't know what to do for him and don't really have the time to figure him out. Has he written to you at all?

I expect that Walter is glum because he's not strong enough to enlist yet. He seems in fine health to me — if he wants to enlist, he should march over to the recruitment office and have done with it. I suppose I would say that I often find myself wishing that I were a boy, so that I might have gone with you and Jerry, though I suppose that such an alteration would pose complications of its own. That being the case, I shall count myself content with present realities. I am getting along fine in chemistry — the professor seems to think I have a knack for it and I must have, as I hardly spend any more time studying this year than I did last, though the distractions are much less enjoyable.

All my love,

Faith

P.S. Whatever did become of that handkerchief? Did you throw it away?

* * *

Notes:

*The Canadian Expeditionary Force was supposed to land at Southampton, but was re-routed at the last minute to Plymouth. The town was not ready for them when they landed on October 14, 1914, and the logistics were quite scrambled over the next several days.

**There are still living beech trees near Salisbury Plain with WWI graffiti visible on the trunks.

***The 2nd Brigade left Winnipeg ("Winnie") at the London Zoo when they went to France. That's where Christopher Robin Milne met her and was inspired to change the name of his own teddy bear to Winnie-the-Pooh.


	5. A Favor

**A Favor**

* * *

16 November 1914

Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire, England

Listen, Faith, I need a favor.

It's dull as tombs around here and I have an idea to liven things up a bit.

Here's what I need you to do:

Make me a shirt. It must be the cleanest, whitest shirt possible: stiff and starched within an inch of its life. And it must have a very stiff collar — starch it till it's hard as a rock so it will keep its shape. Then you must fold it up (I know it will hold creases if you fold it, but the thing can't be avoided, so fold it so that even the creases are sharp and take care that the collar lies flat) and stitch it up in oil cloth so that it stays very clean. Better put two layers for good measure. Make it up and send it to me right away. I'll tell you all about it if I can pull off what I mean to do.

Oh, and be sure to make it with an extra inch in the shoulders. This army training is better exercise than football ever was and I've had to trade in my first khaki tunic for a larger size.

Keep up all your good work. Tell Nan and Di hello from me. No, I have not heard from Walter.

I keep you in my prayers. And in my not-prayers.

Love x10,

Jem

XXX

P.S. Throw it away!? That handkerchief is in my pocket, of course! Couldn't have your rose petals getting scattered everywhere and I just happened to have it on hand. XXX

* * *

3 December 1914

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jem,

I'm just dashing off a quick note to put in with your shirt. I hope it meets your requirements in all particulars.

Between this and the handkerchief incident, you seem to know quite a lot about laundry. Good. I never did like doing it, and will be happy to cede that chore to you in future. Rosemary tried to teach us, but I never got the knack of it. Una was so good and careful and learned how to make things smell pretty with lavender water and get out all sorts of stains. I'm afraid I was not so attentive, and ruined a fair few articles before Rosemary gave up in despair. As long as we both wear nothing but white for the rest of our lives, we should be alright, though, as I can bleach just fine if I don't have to worry about taking out the color.

Do let me know the fate of this shirt. I am awfully curious. Though I must point out that I've done enough sewing for your pranks over the years that it actually would have saved me time to teach you to sew back in the days of false trout.

Wishing you luck in your mysterious endeavors,

Faith


	6. Diversionary Tactics

**Diversionary Tactics**

* * *

25 December 1914

Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire, England

Ah, Faith, you're a peach! That shirt was absolute perfection. Let me tell you how I used it:

As you no doubt remember, Salisbury Plain is one giant, sucking pit of mud. There is thick, heavy slop everywhere — in our blankets, in our hair, in our food — it is truly disgusting.

Nevertheless, our dear Sergeant Barlow maintains that every man in our section must appear for morning inspection with his uniform ship-shape, which generally means clean, brushed, and with every button shining. Faith, the thing is impossible. If the Good Witch of the North herself alighted here in all her snowy splendor, she would be as filthy and drenched as the rest of us inside of five minutes. Still, Sgt. Barlow does insist.

When I got your package, I peeked inside to see that it was what I wanted, but then wrapped it up tight and hid it under my pillow. The next morning, everyone ran out to form up for inspection, but I hung back. I made sure my hands were clean, then I stripped off my khaki and put on the white shirt instead (I declined to wear the fetching blue ribbon bow you tied around the collar, though it makes a dandy bookmark for the novel Dad sent me in my Christmas parcel — one of Doyle's I never got my hands on before).

I stepped into line just as Sgt. Barlow was calling us to order, and didn't I look fine! That white shirt was the cleanest, crispest article of clothing for ten miles in any direction. I just stood up there at attention in my shining raiment as if everything were in order. (I almost broke once because Tommy Fraser can't keep a straight face to save his life, but I held steady.)

Well, Sgt. Barlow walked down the line, never looking at any of the boys but me. When he reached me, he looked me over right serious for a moment or two. Then he bent down and picked up a gorgeous handful of dripping mud and flung it right at my chest. In a minute, every man in the section was slinging mud at me and I deeply regret to inform you that the poor shirt will never fully recover. I got a week's extra kitchen duty for being out of uniform, but it is well worth it.

Thank you, Faith. I think everybody needed a laugh and they had it at my expense, thanks to you. I do indeed know an awful lot about laundry (far more than I did when I acquired your handkerchief) but the facilities here can't compare to Kingsport Hospital. After two years working to repay Mr. Ford for his sailboat, I certainly know my way around a washtub. I'm sure I could return the shirt to all its original glory if I only had the tools of my trade handy.

Looking forward to many a Monday wash day,

Jem

XXX

P.S. Thank you for the socks. I gave one pair to Jerry, but hoard the others like the treasures they are. Every time my feet are warm, I think of you.

P.P.S. I hope you don't stitch such sentimental little rhymes into the hems of all those vermin shirts you're making for the Reds!

P.P.P.S. Happy Christmas! XXX

* * *

25 December 1914

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Jerry,

Christmas Day and I can hardly even say a happy Christmas, let alone keep one. Everyone here is on edge, with a put-on cheer that is over-bright and brittle. We are all trying very hard to be brave, but I'm not sure that this ghastly imitation of happiness is doing anyone's spirits any good. It is downright unsettling.

Susan is the worst of all. She took  _a stubborn freak and insisted on setting out Jem's place for him as usual, with the twisted little napkin ring he has always had since a boy, and the odd, high Green Gables goblet that Aunt Marilla once gave him._ * While I'm sure we all appreciated the sentiment, the effect was gruesome. That empty place right at the middle of the table was the true centerpiece of the meal and it was more horrible than mere absence would have been. I don't think anybody ate anything at all, and I'm sure Doctor Jekyll had a very fine Christmas dinner indeed.

The only person who doesn't even try to keep up appearances is Walter. He is dull and sullen, just as he has been all term. To make matters worse, he has had some sort of quarrel with Di, but I can't make heads nor tails of it and she refuses to discuss it. He went off with Rilla for a walk this afternoon — perhaps she can encourage him a little. She really is growing up and they always were chummy.

But there, I have violated Faith's first rule of letter-writing. I suppose she only writes cheerful thoughts to Jem, though how she sustains them is a mystery.

Nevertheless, I will follow her lead and endeavor to tell you something diverting. Has anyone told you the story of Rilla's new hat yet? It seems that Mother and Dad allowed Rilla to go into Charlottetown by herself to purchase a new winter hat (I should mention here that Di and I were never allowed to travel to Charlottetown completely alone, even when we were at Queen's! I had to take the train alone once in my first year and Dad telephoned to make sure I was escorted to the station and then met me at the other end, just as if I were a child).

Well, Rilla went to town on her own and found her hat, and a more ridiculous piece of millinery you never saw in your life. It is a very pretty shade of green and I will not deny that it suits her coloring, but such a hat! It is velvet, with enough feathers to fly away under its own power and rickrack and beads and even a little piece of tulle sticking out the back like a tail. It is entirely too conspicuous for the quiet little doings in the Glen, besides being quite ridiculous on a young girl like Rilla. I wondered that Mother let her keep it at all, and that was before I heard the price she paid for it! Actually, I never did hear the exact price — apparently it is a sum too shocking to be uttered. Rilla has taken a stubborn fit and declared that she will wear the hat for three years or the duration of the war. You can be sure I got a terrible chill when I heard her say that. We all have a dreadful suspicion that the war may last longer than we initially thought, but no one says it aloud and it is a nasty shock to hear it discussed in terms of years.

See how every thought of mine returns to the same gloomy conclusion, no matter how silly it started out? I am sorry, Jerry. It must seem terribly spoiled of me to send you a letter full of complaints when I am safe and warm and as well-fed as Susan can manage, and you are out in the mud and cold. I have half a mind to tear this letter up and concoct a new one that is nothing but sleigh bells and tinsel and the merry sort of Christmas carol.

Continued, 26 December 1914:

I did not tear up the letter, but I did set it aside until I could work up a better mood. I really am sorry, Jerry.

Last night, I was trying to think of how I might write to you without either hiding behind false cheer or dragging us both into the depths of despair. I have come up with a plan.

The first point of the plan is to do as you ask and send you topics for debate. The first of these is Nature vs. Nurture. That is, are people the way they are because of their inborn or foreordained qualities? Or are they malleable, shaped by influence and environment? I know which part I would take and fancy that I know your choice as well, but will do you the courtesy of allowing you to choose your own position.

The second point of the plan is this: every single day, you and I must find one thing that is perfectly, wonderfully beautiful. Even if you are waist-deep in mud and I am overcome with melancholy, we must never go to sleep without acknowledging the gifts of beauty the world offers us each and every day.

I will go first. Today, I walked alone in Rainbow Valley at sunset. Just as the last ray of tepid sunlight gave way to a purple-velvety twilight, it began to snow. I was standing under the Tree Lovers, and the snow began to sift down through the boughs of the spruce and dusted me all over as if I were a little gingerbread girl. I stood a long time in that mist and thought how enchanting the Tree Lovers are, with their branches intertwined their whole lives long. In the snow, it looked almost as if the spruce were trying to keep the naked maple warm, enfolding her bare limbs in its own soft, evergreen body. It was beautiful.

Write to me, and I will do my best to keep busy and cheerful. And if I cannot manage cheer, at least I can manage to tell you why we must always believe in the power of Nurture.

Love,

Nan

* * *

13 January 1915

Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire, England

Dear Nan,

It will come as no surprise to you that I will argue for Nature. Can you not see that people are who they are because they are born to be themselves? Think for a minute of Jem and Walter — they were born a year apart, to the same parents, raised on the same food, the same stories, the same rules, the same lessons. They attended the same schools and shared everything from friends to books to bedrooms. And yet, could Jem ever be Walter, or Walter Jem? They could not, not if you forced them to swap places and wear one another's clothes and do their best to speak with one another's voices. I, for one, shudder at the very prospect of any poetry Jem would write.

Or think of your mother. If Nurture reigned supreme, shouldn't she be made cramped and small-souled by her love-starved childhood? She never could be anything but herself because one cannot overcome Nature, nor stifle it.

This morning, when I went to rinse my mess gear after breakfast, I noticed a tiny snail climbing up the side of a wooden crate. In all this mud and soggy filth, I never really stopped to think about the creatures that love these conditions. Carl would have thought of it, but not me. I watched the snail for a moment, as it made its slow progress toward some unknown goal. Its body was a murky, translucent ochre culminating in two wee and impossibly perfect antennae like tiny drops of dew. The whorl of its shell was flecked with tones of gold and chocolate and cream, and spiraled in such perplexing perfection that I was quite entranced by it. It was beautiful.

Thank you for this, Nan. I feel better already, knowing that each day I will find something beautiful. It almost makes me look forward to tomorrow.

Love,

Jerry

P.S. Thank you for the socks. And the hat. And mitts. I'm the warmest man in my section and quite the envy of all!

P.P.S. Thank you especially for the French Bible. I've exhausted my phrasebook and it really does help to read something so familiar. I can generally figure out the unfamiliar words when I already know the English version and context. There aren't any French-speakers in my section, but Jem's friend Emile humors me and says I am coming along pretty well.  _Soyez toujours joyeux_.

* * *

14 January 1915

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jem,

Happy New Year! We had a fine Christmas in the Glen — enough snow to be a properly white Christmas, but not squally enough to inhibit visiting.

The Ingleside folks are all well, though missing you, of course. Apparently Susan took a strange notion to set your place for you at the table for Christmas dinner. While I appreciate the sentiment, I was glad that I didn't see it with my own eyes. It is already more difficult to be home than in Kingsport, though I do not know whether that is only because it is Christmas and bound to be a bit nostalgic even at the best of times.

I was very glad that Aunt Ellen and Norman Douglas came to the manse for Christmas, even if Norman can't talk anything but war talk. He is jolly, though, and so big and bright and loud that there's no use trying to be morose when he is around.

Bruce made me swear to say hello from him, and to tell you that he prays for you every night. I have no doubt on that score — he is the most solemn, earnest child I ever knew and it is quite startling at times. Rosemary says he has been in state all winter over the fate of the Belgian babies and she is at her wit's end. She won't let Father read the newspapers over breakfast because Bruce is old enough to read now and the war news sends him into such spirals of anguish. I suppose he must get caught up at school, though — there is no keeping away from war news unless you're shipwrecked, alas.

Things are no better at Redmond. We arrived a few days ago for the start of term and are already up to our ears in Red Cross work. Bandages this time — the Kingsport Red Cross has been tasked with rolling enough crates of bandages to build a new Pyramid. They have passed this task on to the Reds, though whether this is a sign that they are unimpressed by our sewing or merely because they find the task too tedious themselves I do not know. Classes seem to be little more than interruptions of our war work and I am often surprised by the fact that such things as term papers exist and must be contended with, on top of everything.

I think perhaps that you should write to Walter. He has had a bad time of it these past few months and has gone rather morbid. I don't think he's spoken three words to me since September. Even he and Di have fallen out. Una says Walter writes her, but she wouldn't show me the letters over Christmas.

It seems that he is only writing to Una and Rilla, and that hardly seems sufficient. Neither of them will tell him anything he doesn't want to hear. He might listen to you, though. Whether he enlists or no is of little consequence to me, but it is maddening to see him doing nothing at all but moping around in his own private raincloud. I have more than enough Red Cross work on my hands, and if he can't fight, he might as well pitch in here.

Say hello to Jerry for me if you see him. I hope he got his Christmas parcel from Rosemary — I never saw it, but Carl assures me that the letters from Bruce were screamingly funny, even though it wouldn't do to let on to either Bruce or Rosemary on that point.

I am very glad to hear of your successful prank and your warm feet. I can't say I knit those socks myself — even Rilla has me beat when it comes to willingness to turn heels for the war effort. But I did relieve Nan of dishwashing duty for two weeks in trade for her knitting them. You needn't have given any to Jerry unless the Christmas parcel she made up for him was lost, as I'm sure she's knit a whole flock naked for him.

Your comrade in suds,

Faith

P.S. I was going to quit basket-ball this year because I'm so busy, but Di wanted to play, so I stuck with it. It does feel wonderful to run hard and throw things. And Di isn't half bad.

P.P.S. I can't think what you might mean by sentimental rhymes. Perhaps you have not heard, but I am the hard-nosed President of the Redmond Reds, not some besotted schoolgirl stitching poems into shirts.

* * *

15 January 1915

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Walter,

What can I say to you in a letter that you do not already know? Everything is hideous. That about covers it, top to bottom and around the sides. Given your attitude at Christmas, I imagine that you will agree.

The time I spend reading your letters and responding to them is beyond precious to me. I refuse to profane these sacred moments in discussion of brutal facts you may obtain elsewhere.

Instead, I propose a club. It will be very exclusive: just you and I. We will trade our poems, I sending you mine, you sending me yours for critique and discussion. An hour poring over your verses is my very ideal of Paradise.

What say you, dearest? Will you be my critic? And let me be yours? I vow to be an honest one, with only a leeeetle of the adoring mother tossed in.

Here is an old poem of mine to start you off.

_The New House_

_Milk-white against the hills of pine_   
_Behind your aspens' shaking gold_   
_You wait for me; I fondly hold_   
_Your key and know that you are mine,_   
_And all your lovely ghosts I see_   
_Of days and years that are to be._

_Grey twilights sweet with April rain,_   
_The August madness of the moon,_   
_October's dear autumnal croon,_   
_December's storm against your pane,_   
_Must all enchant and mellow you_   
_O house, as yet too proudly new._

_There must be laughter here and tears,_   
_There must be victory and defeat,_   
_Sweet hours and hours of bittersweet,_   
_High raptures, loyalties and fears . . ._   
_All these must blend in you to give_   
_A soul to you and make you live._

_Music of children at your door,_   
_And white brides glimmering down your stair,_   
_Girls with May-blossoms in their hair,_   
_And dancing feet upon your floor,_   
_And lovers in the whispering night_   
_For you, the house of friendly light._

_There must be fireside councils here,_  
 _Partings and meetings, death and birth,_  
 _Vigils of sorrow as of mirth . . ._  
 _All these will make you year by year_  
 _A home for all who live in you,_  
 _Dear house as yet too proudly new_.**

I expect a real critique, Walter. I am too used to your father's idea of critique, which is to say that it all sounds very fine and then try to suss out the inspiration rather than paying any attention to the work itself. I never could get him to take an English class at Redmond and it shows. I expect better of you, dearest.

Your loving mother,

Anne Blythe

* * *

Notes:

* _Rilla of Ingleside_ , Chapter 11, "Dark and Bright"

**LMMontgomery "New House,"  _The Blythes are Quoted_


	7. The Mushy Stuff

**The Mushy Stuff**

* * *

27 January 1915

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jerry,

Of course you would chose Nature, just as I suspected. While it may be true that we incline toward personalities naturally, those tendencies can only blossom in the proper climate. Could Walter have been a poet if he had been born to Mrs. Reese? Could Jem be himself if he had not grown up safe and loved and free to be who he is?

You offer Mother as an example, but can you not see that her personality was forged by her early experience? Her imagination may have been a gift from Nature, but it flourished as it did to protect her from the terrible conditions her poor little body had to endure. In any case, it is imperative to believe in the power of Nurture if we wish to influence people for good. If Nature is destiny, how can we ever hope to grow? I think four examples should suffice to make my point:

[Many pages omitted.]

Now I will tell you my beautiful thing of the day. You will laugh because it is Faith.

Perhaps it does not seem like a banner headline to announce that Faith Meredith is beautiful. Coming from anyone else, it would be much too stale to count as news. But I begrudged Faith her beauty for many years. I will prove my commitment to personal growth by admitting that I have often been too proud to enjoy being overshadowed.

But today, at our Red Cross meeting, I found myself watching her tearing from one crisis to another, soothing here and encouraging there with all that indomitable energy of hers. And it occurred to me like the dawning of the sun that she was perfectly beautiful. I don't mean that her hair was enviably shiny, or that her cheeks were rosy, or that her face looked like an illustration of an angel on a prayer card, though all those things are as true as they ever were. It was something about the way she moved, forceful and graceful and kind and strong all at once. I have often been jealous of Faith — I do not scruple to admit as much. But in that moment, I was so proud of her — proud that she is my friend and proud of a country that has such daughters. She was beautiful.

Do write and tell me that you are well. I am glad to hear that you received my parcel. Tell me what would be most useful to send and I will do what I can. We hear that it is possible to get parcels through to the front, so never hesitate to mention any of your material needs. For now, I will just slip one extra thing into this envelope.

Love,

Nan

* * *

1 February 1915

Redmond College, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Mother,

Thank you for the care package — it was just what I needed. Please forgive my inattentiveness to your letter; Professor Coleman certainly put us through our paces with that Dante paper right at the start of term. He says he has been setting the same assignment for thirty years — if that is true, you might have warned me! I spent far too much time daydreaming about Longfellow translating the text and far too little accounting for the Trinitarian implications of  _terza rima_. What kind of a word is  _hendecasyllabic_ , anyway?

I consent to join your club, and gladly. As you say, there is little enough reason to rehash the news of the world.

I must ask, however that you refrain from sending me any of what Jem used to call "the mushy stuff." As little as possible of "lovers whispering in the night" if you please. I will gladly play critic to your verses, but take pity and allow me the ignorance of a son where matters of romance are concerned.

As to your "New House," I found it quite pleasing. The refrain of "house, as yet too proudly new" stayed with me for a day or more after I had read it.  _Proudly_ ; doesn't that say so much? Both of self-respect and of hubris. Yes, I liked that very much.

I would object to the enjambment in the first stanza though. It seems to serve no purpose and, as it is not carried through in the subsequent verses, it is jarring.

As to my own verses, I cannot write a line. I have a blockage in my soul and in my pen. It has been so bad lately that I hardly know how I got through my exams last term. It was Coleridge who said, when a friend told him to rouse himself from  _the utter impotence of volition_ , that he could just as well tell a man with paralyzed arms to rub them together to cure himself; alas,  _that I cannot move my arms is my complaint_.*

Yet, I can still offer you some sport. I have a file of old poems that could do with a bit of airing out. Here is a little bit of springtime to cheer your February:

_May Song_

_Across the sunlit sea_  
_The singing birds return,_  
_Those travelers far and free_  
_To many an ancient bourne._  
_The winds are very gay_  
_O'er every gusty hill,_  
_Glad vagabonds of May_  
_To frolic where they will._  
_Sun odors wild and sweet_  
_As some old memory_  
_Fill reedy hollows, meet_  
_For lurking alchemy._  
_The morns are fair and white_  
_Unto the crystal noon,_  
_Magic is spun at night_  
_Beneath an ivory moon._  
_The world is full of songs . . ._  
_Like hearts of voiceless birds . . ._  
_To us the joy belongs_  
_Of giving to them words._  
_To us the joy of May,_  
_Of every lyric thing . . ._  
_What though our heads are grey?_  
_No one is old in spring._  
_No one is old and sad,_  
_Immortal youth is here . . ._  
_We'll just be mad and glad  
_ _With the mad, glad young year!**_

Your loving son,

Walter Blythe

* * *

9 February 1915

S.S. Blackwell, English Channel

Ahoy, Faith!

We're on a transport, heading for France at last. After the mud of Salisbury Plain, this ship seems almost comfortable — at least it's clean, if not precisely dry.

I'm spending a few hours with Jerry. We had a jolly time sharing letters from home. Jerry wouldn't let me see Nan's letters — he would only read bits of them to me (very little bits). When I teased him about it, he declared that there  _should_  be something in every sweetheart's letter that can't be read aloud (though as far as I could tell, his "something" was about a dozen pages). I laughed and said there was never anything in the letters I wrote to you that couldn't be shared with anybody, but he scowled and said he feels real sorry for you in that case. He's looking over my shoulder as I write this and I told him I'd have a go at the mushy stuff if only he'd stop pestering me. So here goes:

Faith Meredith,

I love you madly. If you were only the most shockingly beautiful girl in the world, that should be enough for any man. Heaping on top of that the fact that you are also the cleverest, pluckiest, most bewitching creature ever to have walked the face of the earth is bringing coals to Newcastle.

When we have licked the Kaiser, I will come home and kiss you scandalously in every public place I can think of. Then, after two more years of medical school (ye gods, Faith, two whole years!), I will marry you and we will commence making exceptionally beautiful children together.

Signed,

Pte. James Matthew Blythe, B.A.

The trouble is that you can read all that from your father's pulpit if you like. There isn't a word in it that's any kind of secret.

Love and more love,

Jem

XXX

* * *

16 February 1915

Merris, France***

Lovely Nan,

It was easy to find my one beautiful thing today because I got your letter and your picture with it. Thank you. It gave me a little jolt to see you looking so lovely and grown-up with your hair up like that. I think that when I close my eyes, I still see you as you were at the Queen's convocation dance — shimmering in gold like a slip of candlelight, with your hair falling around your shoulders and your cheeks rosy from dancing.

I will admit I felt a moment of doubt that the lovely woman in this photo could really think anything at all of me. But then I looked again and saw the tilt of your head and the little smile you can convey with only your eyes, and I knew that it was a photo of my Nan.  _Tu es belle_.

We've spent the past several days having all our arms and equipment inspected, and expect to go into the trenches soon. I don't know what will be beautiful there, but you can be sure that I will find something to satisfy you.

Don't stop writing, Nan. I am almost ashamed to admit how much I adore your letters. They are quite read to pieces.

Love,

Jerry

* * *

Notes:

*Walter has read  _Samuel Taylor Coleridge: A Narrative of the Events of His Life_  by James D. Campbell (1896), which quotes Coleridge's discussion of his depression in his letters.

**LMM,  _The Blythes Are Quoted_

***The dates and locations in Jem's and Jerry's letters are taken from the War Diary of the 2nd Battalion, Canadian Expeditionary Force, which are available online through the Library and Archives Canada website.


	8. I Sing the Body Electric

**I Sing the Body Electric**

* * *

17 February 1915

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Walter,

You ask me to excise romance from my submissions to our club. Indeed I will not! Though, if you insist, I suppose I can refrain from sending you the sort of poems you warn against. Do not fret, dearest. It will be impossible to avoid all romance in my verses, but I will not send any of the really "mushy" ones.

Now, your "May Song" is just exactly the sort of verse I like to see from you. "To us the joy belongs of giving to them words" — that is thrilling, Walter, truly. There is such a glorious, youthful vitality to this poem. "No one is old in spring;" I quite agree. I am afraid I make a poor critic after all, as I can ask for no edits, only that you will write me out a clean copy that I might pin to my dressing table.

Though I must ask — did you intend the reference to Tennyson's "The May Queen" with your "glad young year"? That did give me a little shiver.

Beyond maturity, there is something wonderfully modern about your "May Song." Perhaps it is only the short lines. But it made me wonder what other forms you might try. You have always been so clever with rhymes, and I confess that half the pleasure I take in writing any poem is figuring out the little puzzle of a restrictive structure.

"May Song" is lovely. But I wonder what you might write if you were to break out of some of those pat little patterns.

But have you ever tried to write anything in free verse? This poem made me think of Walt Whitman, not because it is very similar to his works, but because I think you might benefit from reading some of them. Are they teaching Whitman at Redmond yet? I have nothing against Dante, certainly, but I remember Professor Coleman having a positive horror of anything written after 1850! I know we have mostly been a family of Tennyson and Keats and Wordsworth, but I wonder if you might be ready for something else. Uncle Paul sent me a copy of  _Leaves of Grass_ the spring you were beginning to feel well again — did you never take it down off the shelf? I expected that you would.

I enclose one of Whitman's poems, rather than my own, to test these waters:

_I Sing the Body Electric  
_ By Walt Whitman

_I sing the body electric,_  
_The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,_  
_They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,_  
_And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the_ _soul._  
_Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal_ _themselves?_  
_And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile_ _the dead?_  
_And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul?  
_ _And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?_

_The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body_ _itself balks account,_  
_That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect._  
_The expression of the face balks account,_  
_But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his_ _face,_  
_It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his_ _hips and wrists,_  
_It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and_ _knees, dress does not hide him,_  
_The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and_ _broadcloth,_  
_To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,_  
_You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side._  
_The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women,_  
_The folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street,  
_ _The contour of their shape downwards . . ._

[truncated for length]

All my love, sweetheart.

Mother

* * *

28 February 1915

Redmond College, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Mother,

While there is certainly something in that Whitman poem, I must beg you, please, don't send any more like it. No, Professor Coleman does not teach Whitman at Redmond, and I begin to see why.

I will admit that "the body itself balks account" has stayed with me. But some of the later stanzas . . . really, Mother, I thought that I was very clear on the subject of appropriate material for our club.

I read your letter when I was over to Aster House for a study session and startled the poor girls by going positively crimson all over. Di thumped me on the back, which did not help in the least. Nan demanded to see the letter I was reading and I refused to give it to her — surely you don't send this sort of poetry to the girls! So now none of them will believe that I was only reading a letter from you and I cannot prove it by showing them. Faith suspects that I am carrying on a secret love affair . . .

I did flip through your copy of  _Leaves of Grass_  once, but did not read very much of it. I think perhaps the free verse did scare me off. I remember very well that it was "Charge of the Light Brigade" I was craving that summer. I have heard whispers of Whitman since and confess myself intrigued, though wary as well. If there is much more like "I Sing the Body Electric," I must refuse to discuss him with you altogether.

Though you might leave the volume out for me when I come home for Easter.

Your son,

Walter Blythe

* * *

8 March 1915

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Walter,

I understood your request to cover only my _own_  romantic works, not everything that has ever been written on the subject of love.

Besides, I don't think of "I Sing the Body Electric" as a particularly romantic poem. It seems to me a very motherly work. When I was young, perhaps I would have said that the soul transcends the body. But motherhood makes it impossible to separate the soul from all the bodies I have made with the work of my own. You are all miracles, you all balk account, now as much as you did in  _the sprawl and fulness of babes_. I remember once telling a skeptical acquaintance that I was  _writing living epistles_.* Just the sight of you all in your youth and health and beauty  _conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more_.

You send me no poem of your own, but I will send you one of mine nevertheless. I was going to send you my "Man and Woman," but I see now that it will not serve. More houses, then, I suppose:

_There is a House I Love_

_There is a house I love_  
_Beside a calling sea_  
_And wheresoever I may rove_  
_It must be home to me._  
_There every room's a friend_  
_To all who come and go,_  
_I know the garden at the end_  
_And every tree I know._  
_The wild mint by the gate,_  
_The pansies by the sill,_  
_The pointed firs that wait_  
_Behind it on the hill._  
_That house is very wise_  
_Remembering lovely things,_  
_The moons of autumn skies,_  
_The rains of brooding springs._  
_Laughter that was its guest_  
_And vanished dancing feet,_  
_Oh, never find you east or west_  
_A house so wise and sweet._  
_A house still full of cheer_  
_That is not bought or sold,_  
_For houses that are loved so dear  
_ _Can nevermore grow old.**_

I will be happy to loan you  _Leaves of Grass_ , though I suppose I may need to take a penknife to some pages before you arrive if you are going to be squeamish. I nearly did years ago, but never quite managed to do it.

I will be so glad to have you home, darling.

Love,

Mother

* * *

26 March 1915

Redmond College, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Mother,

Forgive me — my foul temper has diminished my enjoyment of your "There is a House I Love," which I found too neat and tidy. Though "vanished dancing feet" struck my ear pleasantly — that is what I will keep from this poem.

Perhaps I am in a mood for your Whitman — rhymes have been grating on me of late. In that spirit, I will send to you "the best poems" and those you most desire: the girls and I have tickets for the ferry on Thursday the 1st and should be home on the evening train.

Love,

Walter

* * *

Notes:

*Anne to Christine in  _Anne of Ingleside,_ chapter 40

_**_ LMMontgomery, "There is a House I Love,"  _The Blythes are Quoted_


	9. The Body Itself Balks Account

**The Body Itself Balks Account**

* * *

30 April 1915

Vlamertinghe, Belgium

Dear Dad,

We have been in our first big fight, but have been pulled back from the line to reorganize.  _I've come through without a scratch, Dad. Don't know how I or any of us did it. You'll have seen all about it in the papers — I can't write of it. But the Huns haven't got through — they won't get through. Jerry was knocked stiff by a shell one time, but it was only the shock. He was all right in a few days. Grant is safe, too._ *

I can't write more now — I have no time and this mess doesn't bear description anyway. Just give everyone at home my love. Tell Mum that I really am unhurt and she shouldn't worry.

Love,

Jem

P.S. Will you phone Faith and tell her I am alright and am writing her, too? It's only that I want to send this right away and you might get it before she hears from me.

* * *

4 May 1915

Bailleul, France

Dear Faith,

Well, we have been in our first proper battle and I came through without a scratch (I don't know how, but it is the truth). I wrote a short note to Dad first chance I got since the fighting died down, just so you would all know I am alive and unhurt.

Jerry had a bad scare, though — he was knocked unconscious by a shell and spent the night out in no man's land among the dead. He is alright now, and wasn't really injured, just knocked out by the concussion. Still, my heart about stopped when I heard he had been carried back to the casualty clearing station and it was an awful couple of days before I could find out that he was alive. He's fine, really, and already back on the line (though I wish he had taken a few more days to rest).

I don't know what to say about that battle, Faith. It was like nothing you ever read about in books. I told Dad that I couldn't write about it, and I don't think I can. I just don't have the words. Men aren't just shot here. They are obliterated. The Huns attacked us with poisonous green gas and I just can't even describe it. My platoon was called up to plug a hole in the line, and when we got there we discovered why it was a hole. There had been a few direct hits from the big guns and the field orderlies hadn't finished clearing the bodies when we arrived and every man in my section was sick, I can tell you.

I feel I shouldn't. I'm sorry, Faith. I shouldn't put any of this in a letter.

My section was lucky, I suppose. I am fine and so is Emile. We lost Tommy Fraser, though, and I don't know what to say about that, either. I feel that I should write to his parents, but if I can't manage to tell you about it, I don't see how I can tell them. I took some of his photos and letters and things, and I guess they should have them. At least we can swear he's dead — most of our casualties here are missing. I suppose some of them may have been captured, but some are just — gone.

All these past few weeks, I kept having the same thought. You know how Dad let me start going on serious rounds last summer? Not just the easy check-ins, but births and deaths, too. I keep thinking about one case in particular. You remember Molly MacAllister from school, don't you? (Well, Molly Churchill now.) Little, timid Molly with her mouse-colored hair and so tiny and thin I always thought she must have hollow bones like a bird. You'll know she had a baby last summer, and Dad let me come along to help with the delivery. I remember thinking that the thing seemed impossible — Molly so frail and small, and her great stomach so gigantic, how was she ever going to manage?

Well, I tell you, Faith, Molly Churchill was a warrior. You never saw someone so fierce and strong. By the end, she was as beautiful as an angel. When Dad put her baby in her arms (such a big, fine baby for little Molly!) she might have had a halo.

When it was all over and we were on our way home, I asked Dad if it was always like that. He said not always, but often enough. That the human body is wonderful and miraculous, and it is our duty to help people find their strength. I knew the body was a wonder (I didn't spend a year in dissection lab without a proper awe of the complexities of the body) but I felt like I had never really seen it in action before. I'd read about it, of course, like  _Hamlet_   _(What a piece_   _of work is a man_  . . .) but then I saw it for myself and that was different.** Ever since, I find myself watching people as they move and sleep and talk, and thinking that every breath they take is such a complex, beautiful, astonishing thing. There's no accounting for it.

And now, everywhere I look, bodies smashed, or blasted, or poisoned. And I keep thinking of Molly Churchill, and the phenomenon of the human body, and how we defile it here. How every shattered, rotting corpse (thousands beyond number) was born a perfect, glorious miracle. It's not just a horror — it's a sacrilege.

I can't write more.

Jem

* * *

29 April 1915

Casualty Clearing Station #5, Poperinghe, Belgium***

Dear Nan,

No doubt you have heard that our battalion is in the big fight near Ypres. I hardly know what to say of the fighting and won't try. The long and short of it is that I am alive, though I had a pretty bad scare. Don't worry, Nan — I am perfectly alright, even though I am writing this from the casualty clearing station.

Here is what happened:

One evening, we were retreating and the Germans began sending artillery fire into our line. Shells started falling in among us, sending up showers of dirt and wreaking havoc on our line. We began to run and I remember slipping and stumbling — in mud or blood I couldn't say — but still moving forward. The last thing I remember is the sensation of flying into the air and tumbling through space and never landing.

_I came back to consciousness at dawn. Couldn't tell what had happened to me but thought I was done for. I was all alone and afraid — terribly afraid. Dead men were all around me, lying on the horrible grey, slimy fields. I was woefully thirsty — and I thought of David and the Bethlehem water — and of the old spring in Rainbow Valley under the maples. I seemed to see it just before me — and you standing laughing on the other side of it — and I thought it was all over with me. And I didn't care. Honestly, I didn't care. I just felt a dreadful childish fear of loneliness and of those dead men around me, and a sort of wonder how this had happened to me. Then they found me and carted me off and before long I discovered that there wasn't really anything wrong with me. I'm going back to the trenches tomorrow. Every man is needed there that can be got._ ****

But it was easy to find my beautiful thing that day, even when I was surrounded by an ugliness I can scarcely describe. When I opened my eyes and saw the dawn breaking over the horizon — Nan, it was as if I had never seen the sun before. It was not an impressive sunrise — no glory of gold or pink, only a weak, struggling spot of light, dim through the smoke and haze of that wrecked field. But it was the sun of another day on this earth. It was beautiful.

Tell the folks at home that I love them and that I am alright. I have been in this hospital a couple of days, but only to rest and sleep off the headaches that seem to be my only souvenir of this incident. I don't think I will have a chance to write them before I go back to the trenches, and I need to sleep while I can.

I love you, Nan. I know now that if I ever am truly killed, the last thing I see will be your laughing face, and that is not so bad. If ever I must go to the "Land o' the Leal," don't grudge me to it —  _we'll meet and we'll be fain._  Strange how Miss Margaret Douglas's female poets of Scotland have come back to me in these days.*****

All my love always,

Jerry

* * *

11 May 1915

Casualty Clearing Station #6, Merville, France

Dear Jem,

I have been sent back to the CCS again. I tried to find you before I went, but couldn't, and figured I'd write so you wouldn't worry if someone said I'm back here again. I'm fine — just fainted enough times on duty that Sgt. Pringle sent me here for a week to recover a bit more. There's nothing really wrong with me, though, except headaches and fainting. Don't mention it to the folks at home — they'd worry, but I'm fine.

I'm not quite on leave, though. In fact, I'd quite prefer the trenches at this point. Colonel Watson was looking for someone to help write condolence letters for all the men killed at Ypres — I guess the boys at headquarters are completely slammed with other duties at the moment. Someone knew that I was a college boy and needed some light duty. So lucky me.

Our battalion lost 6 officers and 68 other ranks killed at Ypres. Not as bad as some, I hear, but plenty to be getting on with. More than 150 wounded and more than 300 still missing. Over half our strength. I'm only stuck with the 68 dead ORs, though — I'm supposed to write comforting letters home using their service records and the field notes some of their NCOs sent over describing their deaths.******

I did about three that way, but gave up soon after and even tore up those three. Ever since, I just write the same thing over and over — that Private So-and-So was killed instantly by a single bullet to the heart; a quick and painless death in the midst of a glorious charge. I vary the details sometimes.

But what am I supposed to write? That Pte. Thomas McBride choked on a cloud of green chlorine gas and went running madly out of cover trying to escape it? That Pte. Mitchell Barnes held his guts in his hands for three hours before he died and everyone marveled that someone could live that long in that condition? That's nothing to write home. So I make the Germans excellent marksmen — very efficient, how every man gets one clean shot and he's done for. Colonel Watson signs them without reading them anyway.

I remember Una once came to me asking whether it was terribly wicked to tell a lie in order to save someone pain. I reminded her that Father said we must always tell the truth and never even act a lie. I hope she didn't listen to me; I hope she protected whoever she was trying to protect.

Anyway, I just wanted you to know where I am. I'll be back with my section in a week, and glad of it.

Jerry

* * *

Notes:

* _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 12

**"[Jem] ever took things on faith; he always liked to investigate the truth of a statement for himself."  _Rainbow Valley_ , chapter 3

***Wounded soldiers often received emergency care at dressing stations very close to the fighting before being transported to Casualty Clearing Stations. The CCS was a hospital that performed emergency surgery (like amputation), stabilized patients who would need long-term care at one of the General Hospitals far behind the lines, and treated soldiers who could be returned to their units. For more on the location of CCSs and an overview of evacuation procedures for wounded men in the British Army and expeditionary forces, see the website "The Long, Long Trail: The British Army in the Great War of 1914-1918" by Chris Baker.

**** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 12

*****Carolina Oliphant, Lady Nairne, "Land o' the Leal"

******The 2nd Battalion fought at Ypres, most heavily engaged from April 23-28, 1915. I have Jerry wounded the night of the 24th. The 2nd Battalion suffered 543 casualties at Ypres (out of an initial strength of approximately 1,000). see the War Diary of the 2nd Battalion CEF


	10. Lost All My Mirth

**Lost All My Mirth**

* * *

21 May 1915

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear, dearer, dearest Jerry,

I have had your letter in my hand for six hours and have almost worn it out with reading.

We got Jem's letter first — I don't know how, when it was dated after yours. He said only that you had been "knocked stiff by a shell," and that you were not really hurt. Then it was five days until your letter arrived, and oh, those five days! I'm sure I didn't sleep, and the carpet on my bedroom floor is nearly worn through.

I read part of your letter aloud to assure everyone that you were well. For once, Jem's letter was not enough for them. It was only a note, really. He was reticent, saying he couldn't write of the battle, and even that much made Mother wring her hands until they were streaked red and white.

I was even more worried when Faith came down from the manse to report on her own letters. She wouldn't read them aloud at all — I suspect that Jem may have found more to say to her than to the rest of us. Faith told us he is uninjured, but then she said,  _"Laughter is gone out of the world. I remember telling old Mrs. Taylor long ago that the world was a vale of laughter. But it isn't any longer."_ * I cannot imagine what was in that letter, Jerry, but if it could make Faith Meredith sound like Hamlet, I don't want to try very hard.

Your own description was awful enough. When I imagine you lying there among the dead . . . but no, I try not to imagine it. If Faith has lost laughter, I have lost imagination.

I will confine myself to the concrete instead. You are alive. You are well enough to write. Beyond those facts, I imagine nothing.

What could be more beautiful than your handwriting on an envelope, unless it is the signature carrying your love? I have always cherished your letters, Jerry. Even the ones from the Queen's days that were only talk of Cicero and the Tudors. I have them in a box at my elbow now — a lovely, large box with room enough for many more.

Perhaps that will be my beautiful thing for the day — the letters you have written me, with my name in your hand on every one. The thick, creamy paper of the old ones, so solid and reassuring in their neat lines. I often marveled that you could write a letter so neatly with no crossing out nor squashing in points you had forgotten. There was never even an ink spot on those. And the newer ones — economy paper and pencil, speckled and harder to read, but infinitely more precious. Each one of them has been read to its limit, I assure you. I am holding your latest in my hand at the moment. It is beautiful.

Now, I will have no more of Baroness Nairne, for all we found her so enchanting in the days of Miss Margaret Douglas. I will meet you again in the prosy Glen, and that you may tie to.

All my love, over and over,

Nan

* * *

2 June 1915

Essars, France

Dear Faith,

We're in a quiet place tonight (just to rest — I am unhurt) and I have a real pen and a real table for writing on, so you may settle yourself in for a good, long letter. Tell Nan she has inspired me at last. And then leave her behind and imagine that I am in Kingsport with you, and we're under a tree in the park, and you have your head in my lap and I'm vexing you by pulling out your hairpins so I can run my fingers through your hair.

The other night, the boys in my section had an amusing conversation that I thought you might like to hear of. It was Emile Gagnon's third wedding anniversary and he was feeling sentimental, showing around a picture of his wife and baby (it is a very handsome baby, though how it came by those looks with parents like that, I'll never know). It never takes much to get Emile talking about his wife, especially not since Ypres. He told us all how he fell in love with her when she was working at a chophouse in Kingsport and he was driving a delivery wagon. That got us on the subject of how we fell in love with our sweethearts (those of us that are attached, anyway) and I thought you might like to hear what I told the fellows. They seemed to find it entertaining enough. So pretend I am there and I will tell you.

I fell in love with you over a single 24-hour period the summer I turned fourteen. I guess you will remember some of the events, but probably have not considered them from my point of view.**

It was late summer and I had just come back from a visit to Avonlea to find all of Glen St. Mary in an uproar because the Meredith girls had stayed home from Sunday School to clean house. (How could you have mistaken the day, Faith? You can be sure we will always keep a calendar prominently displayed in our house to hold you steady.) It had been an honest mistake, but tongues were wagging and no way to stop them.

That Sunday, I was sitting in church (contemplating the construction of a little bridge I meant to build over the brook in Rainbow Valley) when all of a sudden, there was a commotion. I looked up and there you were, standing right up in the front of the church as if you meant to deliver your own sermon. The whole church fell absolutely silent, wondering what fresh scandal was about to break.

I can see you there now. You had on an old pink dress with a bright strip along the bottom where the tucks had been let out, and your eyes were blazing like you were going to set the pews on fire with them. Before you even said a word, I thought to myself,  _I have never seen anyone so beautiful in my life_. It was quite a startling thought, I assure you, particularly since you didn't really look any different than you had the thousand other times I had seen you that summer (though perhaps a bit cleaner than usual). Of course, I liked you fine before, but this was the first moment when I felt a little jolt go through me at sight of you (certainly not the last, but definitely the first).

And that was all before you started to talk! My, but didn't you scorch the ears off the congregation! I don't remember everything you said (being somewhat fuddled at the time) but I do remember that you blamed Elder Baxter for the mistake and also called all the Glen ladies who were always carping about the state of the manse a bunch of "spiteful old cats."

Well, I had pulled some pranks in my life, Faith, but I was completely in awe of you. To stand up in front of everyone like that and defend your father and give them all a proper dressing down at the same time — egads, you had nerves of steel! And didn't know whether I wanted to be you or marry you.

I could say that I was in love from that very moment, but the truth is I had no idea what I was feeling. I just felt sort of bowled over and like I had never seen you before. I thought maybe it was just the excitement of the moment and that the next time I saw you, everything would be just the same as it had been all summer.

But the next time I saw you! Jerry had been away with your father and I went down to the station to meet them when their train came in. As we were walking through the Glen street, I heard a squeal and turned and what did I see? Faith Meredith, golden-brown curls flying out behind her,  _riding a pig_ , racing Walter on a similar steed.

Now, I will tell you, Faith, Walter and I have always been chums, as well as brothers. And sometimes when we were small I wished that I could be as clever as he was, or talk as fine. But never in my life had I been jealous of Walter, not for one single minute. Not until I saw him riding beside you on a pig, and then I had the most overwhelming feeling that he had usurped my proper place at your side. I was neither shocked nor offended that Faith Meredith (the minister's daughter!) should ride a pig through the Glen St. Mary street. Indeed not. But that she should do so with a boy  _other than myself_ , even my dearly beloved brother? That was a bitter pill to swallow. (I think Walter would have been glad to give me his place — he was red all over and wouldn't discuss it ever after.)

I was dead gone on you from that moment on. Soon after, Walter fought Dan Reese for calling you names (which I dare not repeat, even now) and I tell you I nearly hit  _Walter_  when I heard of it (I didn't, of course — he felt bad enough over the whole thing. I couldn't have taken out my feelings on him, not even when I found out that you had tied your hair ribbon around his arm for a favor — such a romantic gesture, love, I was positively desolate when I heard of it). I promise you, Faith, I never heard Dan Reese say anything about you — if I had, he would not have had to wait for his flattening-out. But I knew then that I couldn't stand for anyone to defend your honor but me (it would be quite a while before I learned better on that score — that you are perfectly capable of defending yourself, though I'm still happiest when you let me do it).

It was still five or six years until our adventure on Gull Island and, well, you know the rest after that (though I do seem to remember you kissing me behind the schoolhouse once before I went away to Queen's . . .). I suppose you'd like to hear some other stories from the interim, but I will save them for a time when I am really there with you and kiss you when you laugh.

There now. This is certainly the longest letter you'll ever get out of me. But my, it has been nice to write it, almost as if I'm sitting there with you myself.

I love you, Faith — a long time since and a long time yet.

Jem

XXX

XXX

* * *

Notes:

* _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 12. This is what Faith says after her first batch of post-Ypres letters.

**The following incidents are related in  _Rainbow Valley_ , chapters 10, 12, and 17.


	11. Distance Avails Not

**Distance Avails Not**

* * *

5 June 1915

Essars, France

Dear Nan,

The prosy Glen it is, then. I would not dare to miss such a rendezvous. I really am feeling better, no small thanks to your letters. I don't know whether I can carry many more of them - I may have to start sending them back to you for safekeeping. But I think I'll keep them all a while longer.

A few days ago, our battalion passed through a tiny village and I found my beautiful thing. There was a little church there, with thick stone walls and pointed-arch windows all at different heights. It wasn't a cathedral, soaring to heaven — in fact, it was hopelessly earth-bound — more like a turtle than anything. The bell in the bell tower clanged as we passed — such a sound! — it made me think of cows — and I wondered how old that bell is. The church itself must have been built in the 12th or 13th century — you would know, Nan, if I could send you a picture of it.

It made me wonder — What other armies have marched this way? Did Joan of Arc come this far north on her march from Reims? Did this bell sound an alarm during the Thirty Years' War, calling the villagers to take refuge from marauders? For a moment, I felt connected to all those people who have walked this road before and seen that squat, funny, lovely little church. The building itself has seen so much — it made me think of Matthew 7 and the strong house built upon a rock:  _La pluie est tombée, les torrents sont venus, les vents ont soufflé et se sont jetés contre cette maison: elle n'est point tombée, parce qu'elle était fondée sur le roc_.* It was beautiful.

I wonder how they endured their wars — all those Crusaders and knights and foot soldiers of long ago. Somehow, I never really imagined the experience of it — not just the battles, but the waiting and watching whole years go past with little to show for it. I thought of wars as dates and places and kings, but I know better now. I hardly know where we are half the time and have only a rat's-eye view of the proceedings. Now I imagine that soldiers must have fought at Agincourt and Crécy without ever knowing that they  _were_  Agincourt and Crécy. We are not so far from the ground fought over during the Hundred Years' War — I shudder just to write that. Strange to think how events get boiled down in history books. I never realized what a name like "Hundred Years' War" must conceal in its tidy appellation. Who do you think gets to decide those things? What to name a battle or a war? What to remember and what to forget?

I am glad there is room for many more letters in your box, though I should like better to be home and writing nothing at all. That mightn't please the historians much, but it would certainly please me. I'm sure my current letters must look a sorry lot next to the old ones from Redmond. Of course those letters were unblemished, Nan — I drafted them, edited them, and copied them over clean, didn't I? And still agonized after I sent them, worrying I'd put a comma out of place — you'd catch it for sure, even if you might be too sweet to say anything. What you're getting now is nothing but scribbles and drafts — straight from thought to paper. I hope you'll overlook the deficiencies in both expression and punctuation.

Don't stop imagining, Nan. I would have you keep some dreams alive for both our sakes.

All my love,

Jerry

* * *

24 June 1915

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jerry,

I never knew you copied your letters over. There was no need to do that, though it makes my heart flutter to think that you did. I suppose I might have noticed errors if there had been any, but you can't think I would have marked your letters as if they were essays!

As much as I loved those old letters, your recent epistles are infinitely more precious to me. Each one is a lifeline and I read them over until I could almost recite them. Never mind what they look like — I would have you unmediated. A silly thing to say in a censored letter. But I would have your heart, not your punctuation.

[Two pages omitted.]

I'm sure that Jem has told you that Walter enlisted when we were home in May. I suppose it was inevitable that he would — he has been positively morose all year — but that does not lessen the blow. Rilla took it hard. Mother was outwardly calm, but her mind never seems to be in the same place as her body anymore. You might be in the same room, speaking to her, and unless you had captured her attention at the first and maintained eye contact, she will never hear you at all.

I dithered over whether I should stay home or come back to Kingsport, but there is little enough I can do in either place. In the end, I left Mother to Dad and Rilla, and came back for Di. She doesn't let on quite the way Mother and Rilla do, but I know that she feels Walter's going keenly. They quarreled this winter, but I never could get her to tell me exactly what had happened. Di has just thrown herself into Red Cross work this summer — she and Faith are at the hospital all hours and they work just as hard as the nurses. I mostly stay home and sew for the Reds and try to write a little while keeping house for the three of us so that they can work more. I never did mind housework, and doing it first saves me having to do it over after Faith has been through.

But I will tell you a secret. This afternoon, I went out to the garden with no knitting and no sheets and no war news — only a little picnic basket and my old  _Lady Molly_  book. I spent a glorious afternoon just being horribly lazy and self-indulgent, eating far too many strawberries and not thinking of anything at all except for Lady Molly's adventures. It felt terribly wicked, but also wonderfully like old times. It was beautiful.

As to the history books, what has come home to me this year has been the contingency of it all. That no one living through an event knows how it will end, nor when, and that it is rank hubris to imagine ourselves wiser than those who have gone before only because we can plot them an ideal course in hindsight.

Be well, love, and know that I am praying for you always.

Your

Nan

* * *

24 June 1915

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jem,

I only read the first few lines of your letter when I received it. I saved the rest for a time when I could go to the park and find just the right sort of tree and sit there, as we have done so often. It was quite an exquisite agony to have that letter in my pocket and not read it, but I like to do a thing properly.

Thank you, Jem. I cherish all your letters, but thank you for this one. I want to hear all the rest of those stories when you get home. I'll never touch another pen and never say another word and be perfectly happy.

In the meantime, I suppose you will want to know when I realized that I loved you. You will never guess it. I don't even think you will remember the day — it was certainly nothing as dramatic as my "explanation" in church nor my adventures in pig-riding (I have tried to apologize to Walter for that, but he would never discuss it with me, either).

It was the first Christmas Jerry was home from Redmond. You were home, too, of course, but at the time, that did not seem of any special importance to me. Do you remember that Christmas? There was such a snowstorm that no one could go anywhere. But Boxing Day was fine, so I came over to Ingleside, but everyone had gone out. Except you. You were sick in bed, but you answered the door anyway and then fainted! I have no idea how I got you back upstairs, but I did, and just before you fell asleep, I scolded you for coming to the door at all. And you said you did it because you hoped it was me.

I don't know if you remember that. You were ill, and half-asleep, and we neither of us mentioned it ever again. But I will tell you, I stood in your room for a scandalously long time after you said that, just trying to breathe. I hadn't thought of you as anything but a lovely chum up until that moment, but never again. I was so staggered that I didn't move at all until I heard the sleigh coming back up the drive and had to scurry out the kitchen door to avoid being seen. I've often wondered what your parents thought about the smashed cake I left on the veranda.

When you came back from Kingsport in May, everything was different. I found that I was always intensely aware of where you were, whether you were off sailing with Jerry or going on rounds with your father or —sometimes— coming to find me in Rainbow Valley. I spent quite a lot of time that summer wondering whether you really were seeking me out, or if I were only reading too much into every little thing. We were always good friends before. Why shouldn't you come to ask me to help you in some ridiculous scheme or another?

Do you remember the day you rescued me from Evangeline Lewis and we spent the afternoon in the hidden strawberry patch out behind the old MacAllister farm? How did you ever find that place, Jem? You were away from home so much then, but you still seemed to know where to find the ripest berries and the first-blooming and last-blooming flowers, even when no one else knew of them. I can't tell you how nervous I was when you came to fetch me that day, but I was determined that you should never know it. I don't think you did, and after the first few minutes, I wasn't nervous anymore. It was just you, after all.

Did you have my handkerchief in your pocket that day as well? If I had known that, I think perhaps we might never have needed Gull Island.

There, now. You can tell Jerry that you finally have a letter you can't share. I'm sure he would have some older-brotherly objections to the idea of me standing half an hour in your bedroom with Ingleside deserted, even if you were asleep at the time. Though if it comes to it, I think you could probably take him in a fight.

I love you, Jem. I begin to see a bit of Nan's point about long letters.

Yours always,

Faith

P.S. I certainly did not kiss you before you went away to Queen's! That was Mary Vance you were kissing behind the schoolhouse!**

P.P.S. I know that your father has already written you about Walter's having enlisted at last (and I would guess Rilla and Di have as well). I will add that Walter came back to Kingsport on the ferry with us and seemed much changed for the better. We had a pleasant conversation — nothing of consequence, but he did speak to me and even looked me in the eye, which hasn't happened all year. Nan and I left him with Di for a long while and I think perhaps they have reconciled. I am heart-glad over that — Di will hate to see him go, but at least they will part on better terms than they have been of late.

* * *

19 July 1915

Neuve-Eglise, Belgium

Dear Faith,

Do you think that I could possibly be mistaken about the first time Faith Meredith kissed me? I could not! It may be true that I kissed Mary Vance, but I assure you it was in service of a much loftier goal. There was no chance of your kissing me in those days unless you were dared into it, and you couldn't abide being told you hadn't nerve enough to do anything Mary Vance would do. Thus my strategic kissing of young Miss Vance and my triumph in losing a bet to you. I could not possibly be mistaken about that kiss, as it was the only one I had from you for several years and I cherished it fondly.

The first Christmas Jerry was home from Redmond! (! ! !) Do you mean to tell me that you were already in love with me that whole next summer, even before Gull Island? You might have told me, Faith. I spent rather a lot of time and effort trying to charm you that summer and now I hear I might have saved myself the trouble!

And you were nervous the day I brought you to the MacAllister strawberry patch? I don't remember that at all — all I remember is you with daisies in your hair, looking like the Queen of May. I should never like to sit across a poker table from you, Faith — you must not have any tells (or if you do, I don't know them yet — in which case, I intend to find them out). And of course I had your handkerchief with me then. I always did.

I guess I won't share that letter with Jerry after all. I've fought a few fights over you these many years, but I wouldn't particularly relish testing myself against Jerry. He's up the line from me aways. I've seen him once or twice for a few minutes, but we made a pact never to be too long in the same place unless we are well back of the line. We've both of us seen enough of the aftermath of shell-blasts to know it might be a hard day in the Glen if one found us chumming around. He looks as well as any of us and seems to be in good spirits, by which I gather that his mail call is generally satisfactory.

I find that I am also somewhat persuaded by the charms of a longer letter. I don't know that either of us can write them often, but I will keep your last somewhere safe.

Love and kisses,

Jem

XXX

* * *

21 July 1915

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Walter,

In light of your recent departure, I must insist that we re-form our club under the following bylaws:

1) That this shall be a club dedicated to literary criticism, and that discussion of mundane ugliness should be kept to a minimum, particularly when it can be conveyed to and by other correspondents.

2) That we shall discuss both our own poems and such others as seem fitting to the day and mood of the club members. New poems shall be counted of particular interest.

3) That I will endeavor to send very little "mushy stuff" from my own pen, though I will not venture to limit the topics and themes of your own submissions.

I went looking for my copy of  _Leaves of Grass_  today and discovered it missing. Do take a look at "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry," won't you? I do not have a copy before me, but I went in search of it because its lines are  _more in my meditations_  than ever before.  _It avails not, time nor place — distance avails not_. That was the very first of Whitman I loved — the connection between past and present, present and future, all of us standing in one another's footsteps, linked inextricably across a not-so-unbridgeable gap.

Write to me of "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry," Walter.  _There is perfection in you also.***_

Love,

Mother

* * *

Notes:

*Matthew 7:25

** _The Blythes are Quoted_ , "The Haunted Room":  
Jem, aside to Diana: "Listen to her! As if we had never seen or heard of a kiss!"  
Diana, teasingly: "You, anyhow. I saw you kissing Faith Meredith in school last week . . . And Mary Vance, too."  
Jem: "For mercy's sake, don't let Susan hear you say that. She might forgive it with Faith but never with Mary Vance."

***All from Walt Whitman's "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry"


	12. Square in Our Accounts

**Square in Our Accounts**

* * *

24 July 1915

SS Corsican, the Atlantic

Dear Di,

Three days at sea, and wind and waves keep our conversation on the Kingsport ferry at the forefront of my mind. I know I apologized then, but it wasn't enough. I'm sorry, Di — really and truly sorry.

I know it is no excuse to say that I have been in an awful state this past year, so I will not try to excuse myself. But now that I can look myself in the mirror again, I have, and I realize that I was cruel to you without meaning to be. You were right — I was wallowing in my self-pity. I felt neglected because your attention was elsewhere and I twitted you about Elizabeth without thinking how much she meant to you.

I'm ashamed of having betrayed your trust by making light of it. This may sound terribly stupid, but I did not fully appreciate the faith you showed by confiding in me, nor how much my thoughtless comments had hurt you. Even after you told me so plainly, I still did not quite understand.

I think I may have an inkling now. When I left Ingleside, I took along a volume of poetry Mother lent me. As I read, I found that certain poems in the volume were of a nature that the Army might not appreciate, and I suddenly felt a bolt of terror. I quickly cut them out of the volume and burned them, but that jolt of fear woke me up, I can tell you. I had never imagined that you might be afraid, and I'm sorry for hurting you when I should have been a friend as well as a brother.

For all my premonitions and presentiments, I think I have been too complacent in how I have viewed the world. Do you remember the evening last summer, before the war, when we all sat at table together and talked novels? It is Shirley's  _Count of Monte Cristo_  that has stayed with me since, turning over and over in my mind these many months.  _We were very happy before the war weren't we? With a home like Ingleside and a father and mother like ours we couldn't help being happy. But that happiness was a gift from life and love; it wasn't really ours — life could take it back at any time. It can never take away the happiness we win for ourselves in the way of duty. I've realised that since I went into khaki._ * And since speaking with you on the ferry, I have come to see that the happiness that I took for granted was not the same for all of us. The Glen was ever my Eden, but now I see that the monsters guarding our castles are truly different shapes and kinds, just as Shirley said.

I'm sorry, Di. Be assured that I have never betrayed any of your confidences to anyone. Moreover, I never meant to insult you, nor trivialize your feelings on the subject. I didn't mean to, but I did, and I'm sorry.

I know you said that all is forgiven, but I felt I needed to put this down as plain as I can make it in a letter, just in case.

Love,

Walter

* * *

15 August 1915

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Walter,

Do not spare a thought for regret. I was very angry last winter, but I know that you did not intend to be cruel. You never could be — not on purpose — and I know that.

Let me apologize as well, for letting my troubles distract me from yours. You needed a confidant as much as I did, and we were neither of us as gentle with one another as we should have been. Forgive me, Walter — it has always been our way to tell each other everything, even those things that we did not wish to hear. You were wrong in general, but you were right about Elizabeth in particular. I was feeling sore over it and reacted badly, and I'm sorry.

Now, no more of this. I said that we are square in our accounts and I meant it. Let us write of other things, having restored one another to our rightful places in each other's hearts.

Perhaps I will tell you of something that happened at the hospital last week. Faith and I were on shift — it is our job to do any of the little errands that are beneath the notice of the nurses, as they are so very busy these days with the hospital always understaffed. There was a little girl who came in with appendicitis and had to have an operation. It is a routine surgery and her case was not particularly dangerous, but her mother was in hysterics and was making the poor child nervous.

Faith got ahold of the mother and managed to steer her toward the canteen for tea, and I was left with the girl. I took her hand and had no idea how to soothe her, so I tried to think of what would have calmed me at the same age. None of my little rituals with Nan would suit, having no meaning beyond the bonds of twinship. But then I remembered how you used to recite for me whenever I was ill or sad — even sing sometimes. Do you remember singing "The Land of the Leal" the night of Aunt Marilla's funeral? How I loved you for coming to me then and bringing us all together in that moment.

Well, I'm afraid "The Land of the Leal" was bit much for the situation (which was not particularly dire), so I cudgeled my brain until it spit out "The Lady of Shalott." I recall being exasperated when Nan insisted that we memorize it all those years ago, but it served me well, and my patient was delighted. She made me recite it twice and would have gone for thirds if the surgeons had not called her case. They allowed me to go into the operating theatre with her and hold her hand and watch as they saved her life. The first surgery I have seen in person — it was beyond words. I think I shall remember it always.

Be well, Walter. I am proud of you.

Your loving sister,

Di

* * *

Notes:

* _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 15

 


	13. What Airs Would Leave Us

**What Airs Would Leave Us**

* * *

31 August 1915

Buford Camp, near Ploegsteert, Belgium

Dear Faith,

We had a funny thing happen today that you might enjoy hearing about. As you know, one of our chief complaints in the trenches is the cooties.* They are everywhere and unavoidable, and make nearly as much a nuisance of themselves as the Huns. We sometimes go a week or more without taking off our clothes, which at least keeps us from scratching the bites, but it is very disconcerting to lie down at night and find that not all the inhabitants of your clothes are sleeping!

When we get sent back from the front for rest or reorganization, we go to the divisional baths for showers and de-lousing. The facilities are set up in a field between a road and a line of trees. There is one long, low building where they have showers and barrels of de-lousing powder, and then a line of barrel-shaped fumigation ovens on wheels for baking our uniforms.

Susan keeps sending me small-toothed combs, but the problem isn't our hair. The lice live in the seams of our clothes, and there's no rooting them out. Douglas McLeod calls them "seam squirrels," and that has sort of stuck in our outfit. One of the ways to attack them is to hold our clothes close to a fire (when we can light one). But even if the critters pop in the heat, the temperature just encourages their eggs to hatch and soon there are more of them than ever. The de-lousing ovens are better because they bake our uniforms to such a temperature that the eggs are killed, too. It is a fine feeling to put on clothes that don't move on their own.

Of course, it takes a while to bake the whole battalion's uniforms and then distribute them again (we attach our ID tags, but something always gets lost in the shuffle). And in the meantime, we shower and then stand around, naked as the day we were born.

These baths are near enough to a fair-sized town that the civilians seem to be in the habit of coming out to the road to enjoy the show. I wouldn't think there would be much novelty in the view after a while, but the French ladies (or Belgians — we are close enough to the border that I can't keep track anymore) did seem to be enjoying themselves. Some of them even had their knitting with them.**

Most of us fell back to the shade of the trees (not for bashfulness, but because it was a hot day and it would be the limit of irony to get sunburnt after spending whole weeks never taking off more than our socks). Jerry's company was near mine and we were able to spend some time together without fear of setting the Glen telegraph wires on fire. I tried to get him to go practice his French on the ladies, but he declined.

We got to joking and I tried to remember all the words of Robert Burns's "To a Louse." I remembered maybe one line in four, and Jerry about the same, but a fellow neither of us knew overheard us and came to our rescue. His name is Donald Innes and he is a McGill student from Cape Breton. Well, he knew the whole thing pat; he got up on a stump and gave the strangest and most stirring recitation you can imagine. He put on a broad Scots burr and had us in fits. I thought Jerry was done for when Innes got to, "O wad some Power the giftie give us to see oursels as ithers see us!" And when he sailed into, "What airs in dress and gait would leave us," every man in hearing distance was laughing so hard that a captain came over to see what all the fuss was about. Private Innes got a hearty round of applause, I tell you, and Jerry and I have made a new friend (I do not know what the knitting ladies made of all that). Emile swears he didn't understand a single word and won't be convinced that it was mostly English of a sort.

I'm feeling grand now — a shower is a great luxury (even if it is not very hot) and the rations here are somewhat better than we have been used to (though, as Jerry says, still rather worse than Aunt Martha's ditto).

I finally had a proper letter from Walter. Now that he is in khaki, he seems to have found his pen again. I'm glad of it — he always was more scared of the things he imagined than of realities. Do you remember that toothache he had when he was a kid and how hard he fought against getting the tooth out? And then it was over in a wink and he was good as new. I expect it will be the same now.

In any case, I hope you and the girls will have a jolly year at Redmond. I felt a pang the other day realizing that I should be starting my last year of medical school, but the thing can't be helped. Do keep up with the chemistry for me — I doubt I can even balance an equation at this point.

Love,

Jem

XXX

P.S. I forgot to mention — in our recent reorganization, Corporal Ellis got moved over to another section and Sergeant Barlow recommended me for promotion. So I am a Corporal now. It comes with rather more duties than honors, along with a princely raise of 10 cents per day.*** But you will have to adjust the address on my letters.****

* * *

Notes:

* _Rilla of Ingleside_  mentions Jem's joking, diversionary, lice-related letters enough times that I figured I had to put this in here somewhere. "Tell Susan I had a fine cootie hunt this morning and caught fifty-three!" Jem to Anne,  _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 17.

**With apologies to William March's  _Company K_ (1933), which features a very short (but memorable!) vignette set at a de-lousing station.

***Privates in the Canadian Expeditionary Force were paid a dollar a day plus 10 cents in field allowance; corporals were paid $1.10 plus the same ten cent allowance.

****I decided to give Jem a little promotion because his canon leap from private to lieutenant seems slightly unusual.


	14. There is Perfection in You Also

**There is Perfection in You Also**

* * *

15 September 1915

Shorncliffe Army Camp, Kent, England

Dear Mother,

Please forgive the delay in my response to your prompt. I have been somewhat occupied with the prosaic world of late, but nevermind that. I have spent a good deal of time with  _Leaves of Grass_  in my off-duty hours and am somewhat ashamed of myself for passing over it with so little consideration in the past. I suppose the free verse intimidated me at the time, but that is little enough excuse.

You need not have directed my attention to "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry." It is already home to one of my more prominent bookmarks. The idea of such an intimate connection between travelers who occupy the same space in the past, present, and future captivated me from the first.

_What is it then between us?  
_ _What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?_

That is thrilling. I confess that in these past two months, I have often felt a communion with the men of past generations who have stood where I stand. But I pray that the promise of our present undertaking will come to fruition, and that no future generations will ever be called upon to walk in our footsteps. If we can prevail — really and truly prevail in this contest — we can make the world safe for those yet unborn to dream and create and live their lives without war. That is something I can fight for, Mother, to make the world safe for beauty.

I will not discuss the "Children of Adam" cycle with you (not to mention certain others — I must inform you that I have taken my own penknife to the "Calamus" section for safety's sake).

You said once that Whitman writes of love, but not always romantic love. You are right in observing his boundless love of all humanity. In the eighth section of "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry":

_What is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that looks in my face?  
_ _Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you?_

Since reading that, I find myself gazing on my fellow men, no matter how coarse or unlovely, and seeing their divinity writ plain, as Whitman did. To see every person, and every aspect of every person, as a miracle and poem — the world is fairly buzzing with them.

It thrills me to see people in this way, but it is also a horror. Are those who defile the living as bad as those who defile the dead, as Whitman asks? If so, I fear that this war is defilement on an incomprehensible scale. Such a great sin against the divinity in all of us cannot be absolved.

I close with Whitman's closing from "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry," which I have been turning over in my mind all this week. I think I begin to see what you mean by "motherly love" — love expansive and consuming, that plants us each within one another, and loves even as it fails to fathom. We are none of us disposable.

_We use you, and do not cast you aside — we plant you permanently within us._  
_We fathom you not — we love you — there is perfection in you also,_  
_You furnish your parts toward eternity,  
_ _Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul._

I have not written anything of my own here - not yet. But I have memorized these lines as if they were a Sunday School lesson. Why do they not teach Whitman at Redmond? I am glad to have "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" with me now.

Your loving son,

Walter

* * *

4 October 1915

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Shirley,

I've enlisted, just as I intended to. I didn't see any point in waiting.

I've got orders to report to Charlottetown on Saturday the 16th on my way to Quebec. I was wondering whether you might have any time that Friday evening, for old times' sake. I wouldn't want to keep you from your studies, but if you are free, I'd sure like to see you before I go.

Write me — I can take the Friday afternoon train out.

Yours truly,

Carl

* * *

7 October 1915

Queen's Academy, Charlottetown, PEI

Dear Carl,

Take the Thursday afternoon train. You know Mrs. MacDougal won't mind putting you up in your old digs for a couple of nights. The boy who was supposed to room with me decided to stay home and run the farm since his brothers have joined up, so I have the place to myself.

I'll tell Mrs. MacDougal to expect you for next Thursday and Friday nights. It will give me a chance to give you your birthday present.

Yours truly,

Shirley


	15. A Poor Substitute

**A Poor Substitute**

* * *

8 November 1915

Liverpool, England

Dear Shirley,

My battalion has arrived safely in England. We had a close shave, though. Don't tell the folks at home, but a U-boat nearly got us when we were just half a day off the coast. Luckily, we were close enough to land that the Brits had spotter planes running reconnaissance and they gave us enough warning for our escort to blast the U-boat to smithereens. Otherwise . . .

I just wanted you to know I'm safe. Say hello to old Mrs. MacDougal for me — I owe her one.

Yours truly,

Carl

* * *

23 November 1915

Queen's Academy, Charlottetown, PEI

Dear Carl,

I'm very glad to know that you are safe. No need to worry — I won't tell anyone about your close shave.

I looked for the green book of poetry at Ingleside this past weekend, but could not find it. I have a lot of it memorized, but find that memory is a poor substitute for holding it in hand.

Yours truly,

Shirley

* * *

23 November 1915

Dranoutre, Belgium

Listen, Faith, I need a favor. I've probably mentioned before that all the fellows in my section read our letters aloud to one another. It's one of the only cheerful pastimes we have. I get a good deal of ribbing over your letters — Sgt. Barlow assures me I will have no end of trouble in my life with you. I am sure he is right and I eagerly anticipate every minute of it. But that is neither here nor there.

The point is that one of the lads, Douglas McLeod, never gets any mail. No letters, no care packages, nothing. He's told us a bit of his history and it seems that he is a Hopetown orphan who has been working as a hired hand on farms since he was old enough to run away from the asylum. He has moved around a fair bit and has no family nor friends at home.

But I tell you, Faith, McLeod is a clever, brave, capable fellow. Just the other day, he saved all our skins by spotting some subtle movements on the Hun line that indicated they were preparing to raid us. Well, we were able to get word to the guns down the line and they blasted that section of trench for a good half hour and no danger of a raid then.

Here is what I want you to do: Can you get some of the girls together and write him a bunch of letters? Bright, fun, happy letters. If you and Nan and other girls with men at the front want to write, that's fine, but try to scare up a few girls who aren't quite so attached, will you? Don't tell them McLeod is an orphan — I don't know that he likes to spread that around. Just tell them he's a lonely farm boy from Guysborough, Nova Scotia, 22 years old with sandy hair and the best singer in our whole platoon. If you can get some of them to send photographs, that's even better. Five girls would be good; ten would be better.

Don't have them send the letters one at a time. Collect them up and send them all at once. I want to see McLeod's face when he gets ten letters at a single mail call, when he's never gotten even one.

Thanks, Faith.

Love and kisses,

Jem

XXX

P.S. Yes, we heard about Edith Cavell here.* I am very glad that you are safe in Kingsport. Don't get any foolish notions in your head about coming over here.

* * *

26 December 1915

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Jerry,

Another war Christmas. No one even tried to keep up appearances this year, least of all me. I have a horrid toothache and was cross to begin with. But then Rilla went on and on all day about Jims's cold, and recounting all the various times he had come down with croup, and I tell you it was enough to set every tooth on edge, not just the sore one.

I was able to plead indisposition on account of the tooth and escape to my room. I was in a very foul mood by that point. Such a foul mood that I had quite forgotten to find my beautiful thing for the day.

I was already in bed by the time I remembered, and there was certainly nothing particularly lovely about the piece of red flannel tied around my sore jaw. So I got out of bed and began to wander the room in search of something beautiful. But of course, I was too cross to find anything — even the moonlight through the window ground down my nerves.

It was only when I stopped looking that I found it. I had gotten back into bed and pulled the quilt up to my neck — one of those old cotton-warp quilts that Mrs. Lynde knit. I had never given it much thought before. She knit so many of them and we had them on all the beds, always, so I hardly noticed them.

But now that we are all doing so much knitting, I have a greater appreciation for what she accomplished. The apple-leaf pattern on mine is so intricate — all delicate fronds and open-work — how did she ever knit this? I can hardly imagine the pattern. Certainly it was a fearsome thing. Did she reckon it herself? If so, she may have had a thing or two to teach the Redmond mathematics department.

There is one of her quilts on every bed in the house, and a dozen more sewn up in muslin in the attic for the day when we girls will need them. The quilt is certainly beautiful. But it was Mrs. Rachel Lynde I thought of most — of her love and her skill. When we used to go up to Avonlea as children, she was always knitting, knitting, knitting. For us. I hardly took notice of her then, but I can see her so clearly in memory. I said a thankful prayer for her last night and snuggled down under the quilt that felt like a warm embrace. It was beautiful.

Now I am afraid that I must tell you that there will be a bit less beauty in my next letter. I went to the stationery store in Charlottetown on my way home to order more of my pink onionskin paper, but they are out of stock and unlikely to get more anytime soon. I bought the nicest white they had, but it still reeks of economy, and I wish I didn't have to use it. But there is nothing to be done about it and I suppose I can write you my love on white paper just as well as pink.

I hope that you have received your Christmas parcel intact. There's nothing in it that would impress Mrs. Lynde, but I daresay warm socks will do you better service than a delicate bedspread at the moment.

All my love,

Nan

P.S. I am sending along an article that we are sure to disagree over: "The Abuse of Biblical Archaeology."** Should recent archaeological discoveries alter our understanding of Biblical texts? I will do you the courtesy of allowing you to choose your own position.

* * *

Notes:

*Edith Cavell was an English nurse in German-occupied Belgium. She treated soldiers of all nations and helped many Allied soldiers escape to Holland. She was arrested and convicted of treason for assisting with the escapes. Her execution (12 October 1915) was international news.

**C.H. Richardson, "The Abuse of Biblical Archaeology,"  _The Biblical World_ , Vol. 46 No. 2, August, 1915.

* * *

 


	16. Thirty-Four Letters

**Thirty-Four Letters**

* * *

26 December 1915

Dranoutre, Belgium

Faith Meredith,

Do you know that I think I may love you?

I said ten letters, Faith, not thirty-four! How is it possible that you are acquainted with so many pretty, available girls? McLeod showed us all the photographs they sent — perhaps we are just starved for beauty around here, but everyone agreed that Kingsport must be home to an unusual concentration of good-looking women. And so clever! Those letters were perfectly killing. It took McLeod two days to read them all aloud and I declare he'll never hear the end of it.

Thank you for making that happen. It was better than I imagined it. The first time Lt. Meade called out his name, McLeod just looked confused — by the fifth, he was grinning and by the dozenth, everyone was cheering, and went on a long while after. Thank the girls for me (I think I recognized a few of their names from the Glen, so thank Rilla as well if she helped round them up). I have a strong suspicion that some of them may receive replies.

My Christmas parcel arrived safely. Thank you for the peppermints (I never eat one without thinking of that time after the football game at Redmond). And thank you for  _The Lost World_. I've read all of the  _Sherlock Holmes_  I could get my hands on, but I had not seen this Doyle, and am enjoying it already.

Things have been pretty quiet here lately, just rather damp and misty. My only complaint is a toothache, and that is not so bad. Word is that we are headed back for a good long rest in proper billets soon, so when you read this, there is a good chance I will be sleeping warm and keeping busy with training exercises.

Happy Christmas to all.

Love and more kisses than are proper to bestow on an upstanding young lady such as yourself,

Jem

XXX

* * *

20 January 1916

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jem,

I'm glad to hear that your scheme was well-received. I read your letter out at the Reds' thimble party today and Hazel Marckworth turned crimson, by which I infer that she is one of those who has received a reply.

Basket-ball season is upon us once more. I thought I must surely give it up this year, being so busy with sewing and classes besides, but Di reminded me how much we enjoyed it last year. She wagged a finger at me and said, "a sound mind in a sound body" and looked so much like you when she said it that I had to laugh and couldn't argue a bit more.

We have put together a good squad this year. You would be so proud of Di — such a persistent defender. She's the tallest girl on the team and can jump pretty high, too, so no pass is safe in her vicinity. We have a new girl — Sylvia Cartwright — who had never played a single minute before this year but is as good a shooter as Helen ever was. She scored ten baskets last game and we beat Eastern Shore Ladies' Seminary by a score of 14-8, so you will see that we are improving by leaps and bounds.

Our crowds are somewhat bigger than they once were, owing to the boys' sports being rather anemic this year. The boys that are left on campus are either kept out of the army by flat feet or some other infirmity, or else they are not so eager to show off their physical fitness. People do still like to cheer on the white and scarlet, though, so we have seen attendance at our games increase. Even with the extra spectators, it still seems rather dull and quiet without your unofficial refereeing.

Nan and Di are both well. They are getting up a surprise birthday party for me, though I'm not meant to know that. I am looking forward to whatever it is that Nan is knitting for me — at least, I hope it is for me. It is rosy pink and she hides it whenever I come in the room, so either I am getting something pretty and warm or Jerry has a very interesting parcel coming his way.

I'm sending along a snap of the Reds — the team, not the sewing circle. I think you will agree that we are a fine-looking bunch, in spite of the get-ups.

I love you lots and miss you more. Sometimes I imagine you and Jerry standing in that field with those Belgian girls looking on and have a good laugh. You may be sure I would be much more interested in my knitting if I had such a show to accompany it.

Love a hundred times,

Faith


	17. The Piper

**The Piper**

* * *

23 January 1916

Lindenhoek, Belgium

Dear Mother,

I have arrived in Belgium at last, reinforcing the 27th Battalion. I have been with my new unit for two days and am settling in fine.

I have been trying to write a little, but it is slow going. Not as bad as it was last year at this time, but I have not been satisfied with anything I wrote in England and have torn up all of my feeble efforts.

But last night, I was in my dugout with a little stub of candle by me, and  _something came to me there — I didn't feel as if I were writing it — something seemed to use me as an instrument. I've had that feeling once or twice before, but very rarely and never so strongly as this time_.*

It is the only thing I have written since leaving home that seemed worth sending to you.

Don't let my tale of inspiration let you off the hook. I still expect a thorough critique. I do not know whether you will agree, but I think that with a little polishing, it might be worthy of publication.

_The Piper_

_One day the Piper came down the Glen . . ._  
_Sweet and long and low played he!_  
_The children followed from door to door,_  
_No matter how those who loved might implore,_  
_So wiling the song of his melody  
_ _As the song of a woodland rill._

 _Some day the Piper will come again_  
_To pipe the sons of the maple tree!_  
_You and I will follow from door to door,_  
_Many of us will come back no more . . ._  
_What matter that if Freedom still  
_ _Be the crown of each native hill?**_

Your loving son,

Walter Blythe

* * *

18 February 1916

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Walter,

I agree with you that there may be something in "The Piper." It certainly did give me a thrill, both awful and delicious, to see your old vision put to words in this way. In particular, your use of "wiling," with its play on "willing," gave me more than a little shiver. All of your "lo"s and "lor"s in the first stanza —  _low, followed, door, loved, implore_  — reminded me powerfully of Thomas Gray's  _Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard_. Were you were striving for the association?

I wonder whether this poem is quite as rousing as it might need to be to grab the attention of an editor. If you intend it only as a private expression, I would say let it alone. However, if you mean to have it published, you should consider adding a third stanza. Something with a chorus of some sort that might be easily remembered and repeated.

I confess myself somewhat surprised that you would wish to release a poem like this into the world, knowing what effect it may have. It is certainly thrilling. But do you really wish to help the piper "pipe the sons of the maple tree" to war? I leave that to your conscience. If you have decided to do a thing, you must do it well. Send me a third stanza. Make me believe it, if you can.

Your loving mother

(and faithful critic),

Anne Blythe

* * *

3 March 1916

Locre, Belgium

Dear Critic,

I have heard of Wordsworth's sister Dorothy and I have heard of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett batting poems back and forth. But did any poet ever have such a mother? I suspect some must have, and it strikes me as a tragedy that I do not know those mothers' names.

You are right, of course. You usually are, which is both an annoyance and an overwhelming comfort, I assure you.

I send my latest efforts — sweat and ink, not lofty inspiration from the elusive muse.

_The Piper_

_One day the Piper came down the Glen . . ._  
_Sweet and long and low played he!_  
_The children followed from door to door,_  
_No matter how those who loved might implore,_  
_So wiling the song of his melody_  
_As the song of a woodland rill._

 _Some day the Piper will come again_  
_To pipe the sons of the maple tree!_  
_You and I will follow from door to door,_  
_Many of us will come back no more . . ._  
_What matter that if Freedom still_  
_Be the crown of each native hill?_

 _All hear the Piper as I did then,_  
_And all must follow where he will lead;_  
_We'll follow by hill and city and shore,_  
_We'll follow to keep the vow we swore,_  
_A debt to the silent army_  
_That marches beside us still._

 _We'll follow, we'll follow the gallant men_  
_Who gave their tomorrow for our today._  
_Thus plays the Piper as of yore,_  
_His merry tune an insistent roar;_  
_We won't break faith if Freedom still_  
_Be the crown of each native hill.***_

Your grateful son,

Walter

* * *

27 March 1916

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Walter,

You have answered my prompt as best you can. It is rather an impossible thing to write a poem to a prompt, especially given an existing structure that must be replicated. But you have kept your "lo"s and answered the question you set yourself ("What matter that . . .") and worked in a refrain of sorts besides, so I am satisfied with your efforts.

I am glad to hear you admitting to sweating over a poem. People are too enamored of the idea that all it takes to write a poem is a lightning bolt of inspiration. Of course, the inspiration is important, and there certainly are times when it is laid on the author to write something. But it is still long, arduous work, often thankless, let alone remunerative.

I think that you will find that if you submit this version of "The Piper" for publication that an editor will snap it up. It will sell. What do you intend?  _The Atlantic Monthly_?  _The Spectator_?

I confess I would rather read no poem at all than a call to arms from any pen, even yours.

Send "The Piper" to the papers. They will love it. I think you know why I cannot.

Your loving mother,

Anne Blythe

* * *

Notes:

* _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 19. This is the version of the story Walter writes to Rilla in the spring of 1916, after "The Piper" has been published.

**The poem called "The Piper" in Rilla of Ingleside is very closely modeled on John McCrae's "In Flanders Fields." LMMontgomery never published a version of "The Piper" that includes the chorus referenced in  _Rilla of Ingleside_  ("We'll follow, we'll follow, we won't break faith"), nor the lines quoted by John Meredith ("For our tomorrow they gave their today" and a reference to "the silent army"). This is the version LMM placed at the beginning of  _The Blythes are Quoted._

***The first two stanzas here are LMM's; the last two are mine. I attempted to bring the poem into line with what is quoted in  _Rilla_ , which is an impossible task. Since the chorus from  _Rilla of Ingleside_  does not match the rhythm or structure of the version LMM wrote for  _The Blythes Are Quoted_ , I broke it up and tried to incorporate it into stanzas that fit with the structure of LMM's published version (particularly difficult given the rhymes, which are not just a pattern, but the very same -or and -ill rhymes in both stanzas - I tried to match stanza #3 to #1 and match #4 to #2). It's not very satisfying — "For our tomorrow they gave their today" simply does not fit within the published version. But I gave it a shot.


	18. Lady Doctor

**Lady Doctor**

* * *

28 March 1916

No. 22 British General Hospital, Camiers, France

Dear Faith,

I am writing from a hospital, but I am not wounded. I start with that so as not to alarm you. The trouble is only that I have had an awful toothache for a while now (I will spare you the details; suffice it to say I am here to see a dentist). I wouldn't have asked for permission to go (it didn't seem so bad to me), but apparently my face was swelling up enough that Sgt. Barlow insisted. I'm glad he did because the dental surgeons here made quick work of the abscess and I am perfectly well now.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

When Sgt. Barlow sent me back for treatment, I reported to the battalion medical staff and they took one look at my teeth and passed me along to a general hospital. Apparently, one of them had heard that there was a team of American dentists not too far off, so they sent me here to Camiers.

When I arrived at the dental unit, the first person I saw was little, dark-haired woman wearing an armband that said H.U. in big red letters. I assumed she was a nurse and must have addressed her as "sister" because the first thing she said to me was, "It's  _Doctor_  to you, Corporal." There's no mistaking a Yank once they start talking and I don't think "sister" means quite the same to them as it does to us. But she looked me over and agreed that I was a good case for their dentists, so I would have called her anything she liked, I was that relieved.

I had my surgery the next day. The surgeon said I had a terrific infection and that if I had waited much longer, my jaw might have fallen off. As it was, he was able to save all but one tooth, and I began to feel better nearly at once.

That was ten days ago and I feel perfectly well now, though I am still on sick leave. It's a good thing my teeth are better — this Yankee hospital has the best food I've eaten since I left home. It turns out that the doctors are all faculty from Harvard Medical School and Harvard Dental School. Can you beat that? They're volunteers — they come here for a three-month stint before they rotate home (apparently they've all been warned to pack their trunks with food and cigarettes, which they do, thanks be). They bring their own support staff and nurses and are quite self-sufficient even if they are technically under British command. The folks in Boston keep them pretty well supplied and I've been lucky enough to catch some crumbs from their table. They have fresh bread and real meat and the only thing I've eaten out of a tin since arriving here is some oysters (Oysters! I nearly choked for laughing!).

I rested for the first three days after the surgery, but I felt so much better that it was torture to stay in bed. The lady doctor noticed me fidgeting and came over to scold me. We got to talking and I told her I was a medical student at Redmond. She took a look at my chart and we made a deal: if I would promise to stay in bed another 24 hours without making a nuisance of myself, she would let me observe some surgeries and maybe even help out a bit (they being short-staffed — a contingent went home to Boston recently and their replacements have not yet arrived).

It's a very interesting hospital the Harvard doctors have here. They're attached to the No. 22 British General Hospital, but they operate independently as the Harvard Surgical Unit. They specialize in all sorts of head injuries. They have several brain surgeons, one of whom let me watch a procedure where they used powerful magnets to remove shrapnel from a severe head wound. It seemed to work pretty well, and I'm sorry I won't be able to stay long enough to see how the patient fares. He couldn't speak or see before the surgery, but they have hope for him. I wrote a letter to Dad about that — I think he would find it interesting.

The lady doctor has been letting me tag along on her rounds in exchange for behaving myself between times. Her name is Dr. Mary Parkman and she is as good a doctor as any I have met before.* You would like her, Faith. She's been yelling at me constantly the whole time I've been here, but I already mentioned that I've been eating pretty well and that's her doing entirely. I think she may have even paid me a compliment on my clinical skills once or twice, though I can't be sure, what with all the scolding.

I have to leave here in the morning — my teeth are better and my sick leave is nearly up. But I'm going back to the line pretty well rested and better fed than I have been in a year and a half, and that's no small thing. I asked Dr. Parkman whether the Americans will ever do anything to help us other than get Woodrow Wilson to write notes and she says she expects they will, though not anytime soon (small comfort). In the meantime, it's up to us to hold the line as best we can.

When I got back to my bed tonight, I found a little paper parcel, addressed to me from Dr. Parkman. It was packed with chocolate and cigarettes and an aluminum syringe case filled with vials of morphine and stovaine. Terrifyingly practical, that woman. But she is a good egg and I'm grateful for the small luxuries. I hope I'll never need the syringe, but expect I will bless her for it someday.

I love you lots, and will write again as soon as I can.

Love,

Jem

XXX

* * *

Notes:

*This chapter is just a little wave hello to anyone who read another fic of mine ("The Sun and the Other Stars") about what Gilbert would do in a universe where Anne died before their wedding. Some of those readers were wondering what happened to Mary in the canon universe, so I thought I'd have them cross paths briefly.

Although the United States did not enter the war until 1917, Harvard Medical School (and Harvard Dental School) sponsored a special surgical and dental unit that served from 1915-1919. The unit was made up of Harvard faculty, graduates, and staff, and was attached to the British Army at General Hospital 22 in Camiers, France. That magnet procedure is real — several of the Harvard doctors mention it as one of the experimental techniques used by the Unit. There's a useful online exhibit at Harvard's Countway Library called "Notable Work for a Worthy End: Harvard Medical School in the First World War" with lots of photos, diagrams, and diary entries.


	19. I'll Wait

**I'll Wait**

* * *

29 March 1916

Shorncliffe, England

Dear Shirley,

We are still in England, training and waiting. It is cold and wet here — perhaps not as bad now as it was when Jerry and Jem were here, but bad enough. I don't think I have been properly dry since we arrived. It is too cold even for bugs and snakes, though there are a fair few rats about. I hear the trenches are full of rats, and I mean to make a study of them.

I hope you are getting along well at Queen's. I do miss the old place and find myself longing for my warm, dry bed at Mrs. MacDougal's. By the time you receive this letter, you'll be nearly done with your final term. Do you mean to go on to Redmond in the fall?

Give all my love to the folks at home and let them know I am missing them lots.

Yours truly,

Carl

* * *

23 April 1916

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Carl,

I am home from Queen's for the weekend, maybe for the last time before convocation.

The Glen folks are getting along alright, though it is very hard to wait so long between letters from overseas and everyone feels the pinch of it. The arrival of the mail is the great event of each day, and Dad just snatches the newspaper the minute it is delivered.*

It is very quiet here, with only Una and Rilla around, and I spend most of my weekend time in Rainbow Valley, fishing among the reeds. Do you remember the time I found you and Rilla at the spring, swearing a solemn vow that you would never marry one another? I think about that sometimes and have a very good laugh over it.

Yours truly,

Shirley

* * *

17 May 1916

Near Hooge, Belgium

Dear Shirley,

I certainly do remember that vow to Rilla. You were our witness, and I guess you've done a pretty good job of holding us to our oath. I never did have any interest in Rilla Blythe and never will.

But you don't say whether or not you are going to Redmond. Are you? It's alright if you want to. You once told me the same and I ignored you, but I mean it. Go. Have a good time. I'll catch up when I get back.

I'm finally in the trenches. I am doing pretty well and have begun making observations on the habits of trench rats. They are fascinating creatures and much more intelligent than most people give them credit for. Still, I'd much rather be out by the Glen pond fishing. Do you remember the first time we went? You caught a catfish as long as your arm. Beginner's luck. Though I suppose your arms weren't as long then as they are now.

I'm sorry that the folks at home have to wait so long between letters. It is difficult to find a free minute and a flat surface. I will try to do better when we are sent back of the line, if we ever are. Don't let that stop you all from writing, though — mail call is quite the event here as well.

Yours truly,

Carl

* * *

1 June 1916

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Carl,

I'll wait.

I'll be 18 next April and it would be a shame to start my freshman year and not be able to finish it. Besides, we always said we'd go to Redmond together, and that's still my plan. I don't really fancy looking for a new roommate.

Of course I remember. Who could forget those eels at your father's wedding? And that catfish — I'm surprised it didn't drag me into the water. I had never been fishing before — no one else ever thought to invite me along. I don't think I've ever caught a catfish quite that fine since, but I'm very glad I did that first day. I remember wanting to prove myself.

We hear from Jerry that Walter did some heroic deed and earned himself a Distinguished Conduct Medal. Good for him — I never did like the way the boys teased him at school.

Yours Truly,

Shirley

* * *

16 June 1916

Near Hooge, Belgium

Dear Shirley,

I am well enough. There are certainly enough bugs out here to satisfy any lover of creepy-crawly things. I rather wish they were not so abundant in my clothing and in my food, but I don't have quite the horror of them that some others do. Even eels never bothered me.

I have been here a month now and in the front lines or very close support every day. We are under constant artillery fire, and even when we are pulled back to camp for a little while, shells still fall in among us from time to time. The Germans have some new sort of gun that sends out high explosive shrapnel, and we have lost a fair few men to it. They say we will be able to go back for a rest soon and I hope it is true — a month seems a very long time here.**

Don't be in such a hurry to come over here, Shirley. I thought I knew what it would be like, but I didn't. I very much hope the war will be over by April.

Yours truly,

Carl

* * *

Notes:

*"The coming of the mail is the most exciting event of every day now. Father just snatches the paper — I never saw Father snatch before — and the rest of us crowd round and look at the headlines over his shoulder."  _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 5

**War Diary of the 60th Battalion, Canadian Expeditionary Force, 16 June 1916: "Allowed men to rest during day. All ranks pretty well done up, having been almost continually in the front-line trenches, or close support, for a period of 32 days."


	20. Distinguished Conduct

**Distinguished Conduct**

* * *

3 May 1916

Vlamertinghe, Belgium

Dear Nan,

You may have heard by now that Walter has been awarded a Distinguished Conduct Medal. Perhaps not — he isn't the sort to brag about it himself. But I imagine the folks at home might like to hear more about it.

We had heard that the 27th Battalion had a rough month in the trenches, so Jem sent a note over to Walter to see if he was alright. He didn't hear back from him right away and began to get a bit nervous. When we got pulled off the front line for a rest, Jem somehow managed to beg a pass to run over and see Walter for himself — it seems that someone always owes Jem a favor. In any case, the 27th is only about three miles away from where we are, so it's easy enough to be there and back in an afternoon.*

I was standing in the chow line with Sgt. Pringle when I looked up and saw Jem walking up the road — skipping is more like. You could see him from a mile off, his smile was that bright. Well, at least I knew Walter was safe.

When he spotted me, he came over and told us all the story. It seems that Walter's platoon had gone on a trench raid and captured a German prisoner for interrogation. On their way back, they got shelled and had to change course, and ended up running into a barbed wire trap. I haven't written you of barbed wire traps — the less you know of them the better, as far as I am concerned. But the long and short of it is that they are a menace and have to be cut to allow men through.

While they were cutting the wire, the Germans got a bead on them and opened up with machine guns. I don't need to tell you what that does to a platoon — you have an imagination. Well, the way Jem tells it, half the platoon got through the wire and the other half got cut down. Walter was in the first group, but when he saw what had happened, he turned back and went back through the wire to carry out one of the wounded men. He made it all the way back to the line, carrying the other soldier, with every man in the sector cheering him on.

There was a colonel on the line that day, watching, and he declared on the spot that Walter would have the D.C. And so he has.  _In any war but this, it would have meant a V.C. But they can't make V.C.s as common as the brave things done every day here._ **

No need to look for a beautiful thing today. Jem grinning that old grin of his, so proud of Walter, and both of them alive — it was beautiful.

I guess you'll be finishing up the term right about now. Are you going home at all this summer or staying in Kingsport? Faith mentioned that Sylvia Cartwright is going to room at Aster House this coming year — I hope she turns out to be a good housemate. Though by the sound of things, Faith and Di and Sylvia spend enough time at the hospital that you mightn't notice she's there at all. I do hope you aren't too lonesome and are getting on alright. Give my love to all, and to the Glen folks, too, if you see them.

Love,

Jerry

* * *

20 May 1916

Some Denuded, Numbered Hill

Dear Mother,

Thank you for sending "Robin Vespers."*** There are no birds here. We have blasted them all. Sometimes, I close my eyes and attempt to picture Rainbow Valley, and find that I cannot. I try to summon the daffodils that must run riot now, but they flicker in and out, no matter how I concentrate.

You will have seen by now that "The Piper" was accepted for publication in  _The Spectator_. I have sent a clipping to Rilla. The poetry editor — Mr. Charles Goddard — predicts that it will be a success and has invited me to send him anything else I care to write.

I don't know that he really means it. I wrote "The Piper" in January, in another lifetime. It was my first week in the trenches and I don't think I would have admitted that I had any romantic notions then, but I have seen and done more now and I don't know that I would or could write it again. I suppose I am glad to have been published. That was always my ambition. But it seems a hollow thing now and I almost find myself wishing I could retract it.

I won a D.C. medal for bravery. I was not brave. In truth, I felt nothing, and did not care whether I returned from my sortie or not. It is no brave thing to risk nothing.

Walter

* * *

9 June 1916

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Walter,

We heard of your brave deeds and your D.C. medal. Everyone is very proud of you. I'm sure you have a letter from Rilla as well as this one from me.

I am proud that you saved a life. So proud, darling — to have struck a blow for life in the very jaws of death is a momentous thing. But I do not care whether you have a bucketful of D.C.s or V.C.s or any such things. These are the things I wish for you:

_I Wish You_ ****

_Friend o'mine, in the years oncoming_  
_I wish you a little time for play,_  
_And an hour to dream in the eerie gloaming_  
_After the clamorous day._  
_(And the moon like a pearl from an Indian shore_  
_To hang for a lantern above your door.)_

_A little house with friendly rafters_  
_And someone in it to need you there,_  
_Wine of romance and wholesome laughters_  
_With a comrade or two to share._  
_(And some secret spot of your very own_  
_Whenever you want to cry alone.)_

_I wish you a garden on fire with roses,_  
_Columbines planted for your delight,_  
_Scent of mint in its shadowy closes,_  
_Clean gay winds at night._  
_(Some nights for sleeping and some to ride_  
_With the broomstick witches far and wide.)_

_A goodly crop of figs to gather,_  
_With a thistle or two to prick or sting,_  
_Since a harvesting too harmless is rather_  
_An unadventurous thing._  
_(And now and then, spite of reason or rule,_  
_The chance to be a bit of a fool.)_

_I wish you a thirst that can never be sated_  
_For all the loveliness earth can yield,_  
_Slim, cool birches whitely mated_  
_Dawn on an April field._  
_(And never too big a bill to pay_  
_When the Fiddler finds he must up and away)._

I wish these things for you, Walter, and guard them for you here in the Glen and here in my heart. Come home to claim them, dearest; they will be waiting for you.

Your loving mother,

Anne Blythe

* * *

Notes:

*On May 3rd, the 27th Battalion was at Dikkebus, on their way from camp in Reningelst back into the trenches; the 2nd was at Vlamertinghe, just three miles away.

** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 19. Jerry is the one who writes home of Walter's brave deeds, though his knowledge of them isn't explained.

***LMM, "Robin Vespers,"  _The Blythes are Quoted_

****LMM, "I Wish You,"  _The Blythes are Quoted_


	21. Lose Not an Atom

**Lose Not an Atom**

* * *

21 July 1916

Near Ypres, Belgium

Dear Mother,

Thank you for your verses. Here, it is too easy to forget "all the loveliness earth can yield." Thank you for holding that wish in trust for me. I can no longer keep it for myself.

I am grown a lazy critic. Shall I pick apart your syllables? Chide you for a rocky rhyme? Your words are perfect in the sort of perfection that I have grown afraid to handle for fear my touch will spoil and stain it.

On the march, we passed by a field that had been much fought-over last year, but has gone unmolested more recently. It was a hard-won piece of ground, the very soil churned by shell blasts and soaked with the blood of thousands. When we rounded a bend in the road, we could see that the whole field was covered in crimson poppies — thousands upon thousands of them as far as the eye could see. Nobody planted them, but they had sprung up out of that gore-drenched soil in all their brilliant redness, shocking against the blasted earth.

It made me think of the verse from Isaiah:  _For, behold, the Lord cometh out of his place to punish the inhabitants of the earth for their iniquity: the earth also shall disclose her blood, and shall no more cover her slain_.

I cower, thinking of God's judgment over this war. The things that happen here, the recklessness with which we profane God's sacred gifts of life and beauty — God will not let us forget it. And then sometimes I think that this  _is_  the judgment, and that God decided to show us a little slice of Hell that could not soon be forgotten. All the day and night, I cannot stop thinking of those poppies. These dead will not stay buried. The very earth will disclose them to us, over and over, for always, and I don't know how we can go on living.

I have been reading more in Whitman and feel I begin to understand him a bit better every day. But what good it is to see every motion and gesture of the body as an "act-poem" when I must see that very miracle demolished in the very next instant?

I have been reading in the  _Drum Taps_  section and wonder what Whitman made of his earlier works after witnessing four years of war. Did he still delight in the body? Did he still believe that body and soul are one after seeing what man is capable of doing to his fellow man? Did he still see the divinity in all of us?

He certainly did see war. Real war. Maybe not trenches and aeroplanes and poison gas, but anyone who could write "Pensive on Her Dead Gazing I Heard the Mother of All" saw enough to know. I wonder if he thought of Isaiah as well, when he wrote it:

_Absorb them well O my earth, she cried, I charge you lose not my sons, lose not an atom,  
_ _And you streams, absorb them well, taking their dear blood,  
_ _And you local spots, and you airs that swim above lightly impalpable,  
_ _And all you essences of soil and growth, and you my rivers' depths,  
_ _And you mountain sides, and the woods where my dear children's blood trickling redden'd,  
_ _And you trees down in your roots to bequeath to all future trees,  
_ _My dead absorb or South or North—my young men's bodies absorb, and their precious precious blood,  
_ _Which holding in trust for me faithfully back again give me many a year hence,  
_ _In unseen essence and odor of surface and grass, centuries hence,  
_ _In blowing airs from the fields back again give me my darlings, give my immortal heroes,  
_ _Exhale me them centuries hence, breathe me their breath, let not an atom be lost,  
_ _O years and graves! O air and soil! O my dead, an aroma sweet!  
_ _Exhale them perennial sweet death, years, centuries hence_.*

I remember once, when I was very small, you and Dad laughing over an article in a medical journal. I can see you so clearly, protesting that you were no "concatenation of atoms."** Oh, Mother, you were right, there in that dear old world! But in this new world, we are nothing but atoms. And I fear we will be lost.

Can it be true that "Pensive on Her Dead Gazing" is fifty years old? That Whitman wrote it a bare decade after Tennyson wrote "Charge of the Light Brigade"? It comes from a different world — this world — and I cannot fathom how we believed in Tennyson all those years when Whitman already knew better.

Do you remember Miss Margaret Douglas? The supply teacher who taught us about the female poets of Scotland? She tried to tell me. I remember the day she gave me "Flowers of the Forest." She told me never to forget that it was a dirge. But I didn't listen. I even thought about "Flowers of the Forest" when I was writing "The Piper," remembering the thrill I got when Neil McNab played his bagpipes at the schoolhouse.

But I didn't really listen, did I? Miss Douglas told me plainly that it was lament, and all I could think was how beautiful she was. I wasn't listening at all to what she was saying. She gave me "Flowers of the Forest" and I smiled like a fool and still loved "The Charge of the Light Brigade." How could I have been so stupid? Tennyson never saw the Light Brigade charge. He read about it in a newspaper. And now here we are, we who believed him, six million dead instead of six hundred.

Whitman wrote "lose not an atom" and fifty years later I still wrote "The Piper"! I am disgusted with myself.

No more Pipers. No more of that. I have made a little beginning on a new poem, but cannot resolve it:

_The Parting Soul***_

_Open the casement and set wide the door_   
_For one out-going_   
_Into the night that slips along the shore_   
_Like a dark river flowing;_   
_The rhythmic anguish of our sad heart's beating  
Must hinder not a soul that would be floating._

_Hark, how the voices of the ghostly wind_   
_Cry for her coming!_   
_What wild adventurous playmates will she find_   
_When she goes roaming?_   
_Over the starry moor and misty hollow?_   
_Loosen the clasp and set her free to follow._

Your son,

Walter

* * *

8 August 1916

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dearest Walter,

I have tried my hand at finishing it.

_Open the casement and set wide the door . . ._   
_The call is clearer!_   
_Than we whom she had loved so well before_   
_There is a dearer_   
_When her fond lover Death for her is sighing_   
_We must now hold her with our tears from dying._

Be well, my son. You will never be lost.

Mum

* * *

25 August 1916

Volckerinkhove, France

Dear Mother,

Thank you for that poem. I cannot say more about it.

I saw Jem a few days ago. He has come over to check on me once or twice these past few months. He congratulated me on "The Piper" and I did not know what to say.

Your Walter

* * *

9 August 1916

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Beloved Diana,

We are all well at Ingleside. I always feel that I must get that out of the way at the very beginning of any letter I write these days. It is such ghastly torture to be always waiting for news that I try not to keep anyone in suspense. There is no longer moment than the one between opening a letter and scanning the first paragraph for urgent news, unless it is the one between answering the telephone and hearing who is on the other end of the line.

I had a letter from Phil Blake today. Her eldest, Gordon, has been poisoned in a gas attack in the trenches. She says that last they heard, he was alive, though they have no further information about his condition and are in daily dread both of hearing more and of hearing nothing. Olly Blake is at the front, too — he was wounded last spring, but not badly enough to come home. But there, I will not overburden you with war news. I am sure you could read me an equally gruesome roster of the Avonlea boys. It is a curious thing — I long to know, I must know! But how can I bear to read it?

I promise that I am brave in all my correspondence with the children and am a veritable pillar of resolve in front of anyone and everyone, except Gilbert. And even with him, I feel I must keep up some semblance of cheer — he does worry so, and there is so much to worry over now that I feel I should not add overmuch to his burdens. There are times in the dark, oppressive night when I cannot help but give in to despair . . . did I ever think I was in the "depths of despair" before? Often and oftener, dearest. But only once before have I plumbed the caverns of these desolate deeps. Imagination is no refuge, as it was in the sorrows of my childhood. I imagine things still, but such things!

I do not wish to pile stones upon your own burdens. Everyone is so plucky and courageous and I'm sure that you keep up appearances at least as well as I do. But I feel that I can confess to you what is in my heart, Di, as I always could. When we were girls, we shared our joys and our sorrows, such as they were. And we have shared joys now — joys of love and motherhood and a fulfillment so all-powerful we can see what fools we were as girls to think we could have imagined half of it with our childish hearts! But now comes the other half, the shadow-grief as large as the joy that cast it and larger, larger, growing larger with every passing hour!

How can we bear it, Di? Is this what we made them for? Carried them in our bodies, bore them through pain, fed them at our own breasts, coaxed and encouraged their first words and first steps, held their hands and kissed their bruises, sewed their proud new school clothes, soothed their wounded pride and outraged ideals, watched them grow into beautiful, wonderful, flawed, irreplaceable young men and women? For this? So we could shovel them into the maw of this pointless, anonymous, hideous war? I can never reconcile myself to it.

I have the strangest thought sometimes. I find myself tallying up all the bedtime stories I have told over the last quarter-century — all the lullabies and little conferences of advice. Not just mine — I count Susan's biscuits and Gilbert's sleepless nights, and all the work we have done to build up the next generation, not just with our hopes and dreams, but with our labor. What did we do it for? To gain a foot of mud in France? To spend them on some numbered hill that will be retaken in a week anyway? I have loved many hills and not a single one of them was worth any child's life.

Sometimes I can console myself by noting how brave and honorable they all are. Even my little Rilla, who was such an irresponsible slip of a girl before the war, has grown up into a woman because of it. Sometimes I can be proud of them.

But other times, Diana . . . other times I am overwhelmed with rage at what has been stolen from them. I think of our own beautiful, golden-dreamy youth, marred by the little bitternesses and obstacles that must intrude on any happy life. But this? It has not only stolen the years when they should have been studying and flirting and growing strong. It has ruined something that cannot be repaired. Some of them will come through it alright, I suppose. Battered and changed — horribly changed — but able to carry on. But others . . .

We worry about them being wounded or killed. But Diana, that is only part of it. Such letters as I get from Walter! Di, I know in my heart that he is not coming back. Even if he lives, this war has broken him in a way that I cannot express in words. I know you have seen "The Piper," as everyone has. He wrote when he first got to the front, back in January. The letters he sends me now . . . I have not shown them to anyone. Not Gilbert. And I will not show them to you. But oh, Diana. My sweet boy! Sometimes I feel that the only reason I continue to breathe is that I must help him to go first.

Now, that is morbid, even if it is true. Gilbert would admonish me.**** Forgive my weakness, dearest. It is selfish of me to indulge in such gloom in a letter. Send me your sorrows, Di, so that I might know that I am not wholly alone in this horrid grief.

Give my love to Fred and Small Anne Cordelia and Dora's family and Davy's and all our friends in Avonlea. Tell them that they lie heavy on my heart every hour of every day.

Yours, as ever,

Anne

* * *

Notes:

*Walt Whitman, "Pensive on Her Dead Gazing I Heard the Mother of All," Drum Taps,  _Leaves of Grass_

** _Anne of Ingleside_ , chapter 25

***In  _The Blythes Are Quoted_ , Anne says of this poem, "Walter wrote the first two verses just before he . . . went away. I . . . I thought I would like to finish it."

**** _The Blythes Are Quoted_ ("The Bride Dreams"):  
Gilbert: "Anne-girl, I've no earthly wish to interfere with anything you want to write. But isn't that rather morbid?"  
Susan (under her breath): "She never wrote like that before Walter died . . ."  
Gilbert (thinking): "I imagine it's time Anne had a trip somewhere."


	22. Two Up

**Two Up**

* * *

14 September 1916

Rozel Farm near Warloy, France

Dear Nan,

I am safe. So is Jem. I know you will have seen in the papers that we are all engaged in the offensive at the Somme and I wanted to write to ease your mind. We were in a very fierce fight on the 9th, but have been pulled back from the front and are resting now.

This past fortnight has felt like a year. Two weeks ago, we left Belgium on an early morning train and arrived in a little French town where the civilians applauded us and showered us with bouquets. The whole town turned out to cheer us on the march, and I very narrowly avoided being kissed by some very determined French girls - some of my comrades were less agile. It made me think of the Greeks and their phyllobolia, and despite everything that has come after, it was beautiful for just that moment. Then we marched through the countryside — 30 miles, all in a stupendous downpour.*

The weather cleared a bit on the day we were set to go into the trenches. We were meant to relieve a couple of Australian battalions, but as often happens, everything was delayed and we spent the morning cooling our heels just behind the line. I was trying to catch some sleep when I heard a shout of laughter I'd know anywhere. I looked over toward the road and sure enough, there was Jem, playing some sort of game with a crowd of Diggers.**

Well, we weren't going anywhere just then, so I went over to see what they were up to. It was a sort of gambling game — Two Up, they call it. Everybody stands in a circle and one of the men tosses up two pennies and everyone bets on how they will fall. It's a simple game, but they seemed to enjoy it fine and Jem was having a grand old time. He bet heads every time and kept on winning and winning. I couldn't bet — I always feel that Miss Cornelia is frowning over my shoulder every time someone brings out a pack of cards in my vicinity. Do you think she knows that we get rum rations? If she does, you may tell her that they are quite necessary.

I stood there a while and watched. Emile Gagnon came over to watch with me and told me about his wife, Marie. She lives in Kingsport, on Patterson Street. I guess his little son, Claude, just turned two. I was glad of the chance to practice my French, even though I suspect Emile was laughing at me the whole time. Jem kept on playing until we were called back to fall in. He walked away with quite a lot of the Diggers' money, but I don't think they grudged it, especially as they were on the way out and we were on the way in.

That all seems so long ago. We went into the trenches then and had rather a bad time of it for a while. There's no point telling you too much about our fight on the 9th, not when Jem and I both came out of it unharmed. But there is one part I would tell you, and I hope you will forgive me for it. I just feel that I need to get it down on paper so that it won't be forgotten, no matter what.

I'm sure I've written to you of Sgt. Pringle before. He was a lot like Jem — no one could miss him in a crowd — he was over six feet tall and a lumberman. He'd been with my section since we lost our first sergeant at Ypres and he always liked me. I think it was because his father is a Presbyterian minister, too, though not quite like Father. His father — Major John Pringle — is an adventurer who has been stationed everywhere from Charlottetown to the Yukon, and is a chaplain here in the army now. They came over on the same ship, the two of them, father and son, all the way back when we left Valcartier. Sgt. Pringle liked to rib me for being a better minister's son than he was, but he looked out for me. He was a good soldier and got commissioned as a lieutenant this summer, leading our whole platoon.

When we went over the top on the 9th, we got into a pretty bad spot opposite a machine gun nest that our barrage hadn't hit. We all hit the dirt for cover, but not Lt. Pringle. He charged in and all we could do was watch as he went in all alone. There was a machine gun spitting bullets at us, and then it just stopped. We regrouped and followed and there he was — dead in the machine gun nest, with the six German gunners dead underneath him.

We took the position and came back for his body the next day. Somehow, somebody found Rev. Pringle, whose battalion was nearby. We buried Lt. Pringle in a maple grove and his father read the burial service over him. There were shells falling around us as we prayed, but not one of us was harmed.***

I'm not sure it was beautiful, Nan. But it feels like something that should be remembered, not just in fragile, fallible memory, but on paper, by everyone, forever. I don't know how things get in history books, or who decides what to put in and what to leave out, but I want that in.  _Il n'y a pas de plus grand amour que de donner sa vie pour ses amis.****_

We are not on the front lines just at the moment, but plenty of others are. And we can't all keep coming up heads forever.

Just know I love you, Nan. And if I ever see you again, it's half Providence and half Jack Pringle.

Love,

Jerry

* * *

15 September 1916

Near Courcelette, France

Mum,

Thank you for our club. You can never know what your letters have meant to me this past year and a half. I know you will want to hear neither of present realities nor of presentiments. Know only that I have kissed this paper and send it to you to do what I cannot.

I cannot say what I need to say in prose. I have written a letter to Rilla tonight — a good, upstanding kind of letter. It is full of love and encouragement. She is such a dear girl, and she has such a golden future ahead of her. I believe everything I said in it, but I could not tell her everything. I hardly know how to tell you.

The sky is lightening now, Mother. The dawn is coming for me. And so I will tell you the only way I can think to do it.

I love you, Mummy. I'm so sorry.

_The Aftermath*****_

_I._

_Yesterday we were young who now are old . . ._  
_We fought hot-hearted under a sweet sky,_  
_The lust of blood made even cowards bold,_  
_And no one feared to die;_  
_We were all drunken with a horrid joy,_  
_We laughed as devils laughed from hell released,_  
_And, when the moon rose redly in the east,_  
_I killed a stripling boy!_  
_He might have been my brother slim and fair . . ._  
_I killed him horribly and I was glad,_  
_It pleased me much to see his dabbled hair,_  
_The pale and pretty lad!_  
_I waved my bayonet aloft in glee . . ._  
_He writhed there like a worm, and all around_  
_Dead men were scattered o'er the reeking ground . . .  
_ _Ours was the victory!_

_II._

_Now we are old who yesterday were young  
__And cannot see the beauty of the skies,  
__For we have gazed the pits of hell among  
__And they have scorched our eyes.  
__The dead are happier than we who live,  
__For, dying, they have purged their memory thus  
__And won forgetfulness; but what to us  
__Can such oblivion give?  
_We must remember always _; evermore  
__Must spring be hateful and the dawn a shame . . .  
__We shall not sleep as we have slept before  
__That withering blast of flame.  
__The wind has voices that may not be stilled . . .  
__The wind that yester morning was so blithe . . .  
__And everywhere I look I see him writhe,  
__That pretty boy I killed!_

Walter Blythe

* * *

Notes:

*War Diary of the 2nd Canadian Infantry Battalion, 28-31 August 1916. The town that met the 2nd with cheers and flowers was Auxi-le-Chateau.  _Phyllobolia_  is the ceremony of showering leaves and/or flowers upon a victorious athlete. It can also refer to the adornment of the dead with offerings of foliage.

** For my Australian readers, particularly MrsVonTrapp. Australian troops arrived in France in April of 1916 and I thought that after Courcelette, Jem probably wouldn't be in the mood for gambling for a while. So I scoured the 2nd Battalion's war diary and found one single day when Jem could have learned to play two up. On August 31, after a long march in the rain, the 2nd Battalion arrived in Albert, France, where they relieved the 45th and 25th Australian Battalions.

***Lt. John Percival Pringle of the 2nd Canadian Infantry Battalion was a real person. He was born in Charlottetown and killed in action on 9 September 1916 in the fighting near Courcelette. This account is pieced together from the 2nd Battlion's war diary, Lt. Pringle's service record, and a memoir written by one of his men that describes his death and funeral. All the details here appear in those records - his height, his nickname, his chaplain dad, his funeral. They may not be entirely accurate, but they are the stories his friends told about him. The only parts I made up were Pringle's interactions with Jerry. Lt. Pringle's body was eventually moved to the Albert Comunal Cemetery Extension in Albert, France, where he is buried in grave #3, plot 1, row L.

****John 15:13: _Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends._

*****In  _The Blythes are Quoted_ , "The Aftermath" is sent to Anne with Walter's papers after he dies. She never reads it to anyone except Jem. As they send Jem's sons off to World War II, Anne says ("steadily"), "I am thankful now, Jem, that Walter did not come back. He could never have lived with his memories . . . and if he had seen the futility of the sacrifice they made then mirrored in this ghastly holocaust . . ."

LMM put her version of "The Piper" at the very beginning of  _The Blythes are Quoted_  and "The Aftermath" at the very end. It's the end of her last work — the very last bit of canon.


	23. DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU

**DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU**

* * *

MARITIME TELEGRAM COMPANY  
VIA CHARLOTTETOWN  
FROM OTTAWA ONT SEPT 21 1916

DR GILBERT BLYTHE  
GLEN ST MARY PEI

DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU PTE WALTER C BLYTHE KILLED IN ACTION COURCELETTE FRANCE SEPTEMBER 16 1916


	24. Our News is the Very Worst

**Our News is the Very Worst**

* * *

21 September 1916

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jem,

Our news is the very worst. I am so dreadfully sorry, love.

Your father phoned today to tell us that Walter was killed in action at Courcelette on the 16th of September.

I do not know anything more. I do not need to tell you that it has been a desperate day here. Sylvia and I have finally gotten Di and Nan into bed and hope that they will stay there a good long while. But I could not sleep without writing to you.

I know that you sometimes get news before we do, and that this letter will be a long time crossing the ocean. Forgive me if I am repeating what you already know. And forgive me if this is the first you have heard of it.

I will write to Jerry as well. I wish I could be there with you this very moment. Since I cannot, I will hope that he may be able to get to you.

I love you.

Your

Faith

* * *

22 September 1916

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Carl,

You will not have heard our terrible news: Walter was killed in action at Courcelette on the 16th.

Of course, I came home from Charlottetown as soon as I could, thinking I might be able to help, but there is not much I can do. Rilla tries to put on a cheerful face, but it is a terrible thing to see.

Una bids me send her love to you. We sat together for a while in Rainbow Valley last night. We did not talk much, but I was very glad to have someone by my side, and I think perhaps she felt the same.

Really, I would rather be in France than here. I know you say that I should not rush to enlist, but I could be helping, actually doing something instead of sitting here uselessly, having to listen to the telephone ring. There are so many here who cannot go overseas, but I can — just a few months more.

Shirley

* * *

4 October 1916

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Dad,

We are as well as can be expected. Not well, of course. How can we ever be well again? But getting by somehow. I went back to the hospital this week, just for something to do. I find it helps to keep my mind occupied, if only for a short while.

Nan has not gone back to class yet. Please forgive her if her grades are not up to her usual standard this semester. She is wretched. When she is awake, she writes endlessly — to Jerry, I suppose, though she doesn't say a word about it. Faith and Sylvia have taken good care of us both. Faith makes sure that Nan is eating and Sylvia is a great comfort to me. We are lucky to have them.

I almost feel ashamed to be walking upright, though. How can I walk and talk and attend class just as if nothing had happened? At least Nan has been knocked off her feet by the blow. That seems more fitting. But incapacity can't be a reliable way to measure grief. I don't think Nan can possibly be more heartbroken than I am myself — maybe it is only that she has been under such strain for so long that her reserves are depleted. Or perhaps grief just takes different people differently. Nan seems to have no energy at all, but I find myself nearly bursting with it. I feel that I must DO something — classes and Red Cross work aren't enough.

So I want to put a proposal before you, Dad. Mrs. Wellfleet invited the matron from Kingsport Hospital to address our Red Cross meeting this week because she is thinking of organizing a training program for college girls to get some nursing training here in Kingsport. It wouldn't be a full-time training, as professional nurses receive, but we would take First Aid classes in the evening and attend practical clinics at the hospital on Saturdays. The idea is to train us to perform some of the lighter nursing duties in order to lighten the load at the hospital now that so many of the professional nurses have gone overseas.

Will you give me permission to join the class? Faith is writing Rev. Meredith for permission, and Sylvia is planning on joining as well. I promise that I would keep up with my studies in my regular courses.

You know that I have long dreamed of doing some work in the medical field. Before the war, I was even working up the courage to talk with you about the possibility of medical school. I don't know whether that is still something worth thinking about, but I do know that I will worry myself to pieces if I cannot direct my energy toward some useful end. I think I could be good at this, and do good, important work as a nurse.

If you need more details about the program, I am enclosing my notes from the meeting and would be happy to seek out more information if you want it.

Please write and tell me that I may join. They mean to convene the class as soon as possible, perhaps even next week.

Give my love to Susan and Shirley and Rilla and Jims and Miss Oliver. I don't know what to say to Mother, except that I love her, and that I'm taking care of Nan the best I can, so she needn't worry about either of us.

How is she getting on, Dad? And how are you? Do you think I ought to bring Nan home, either for a weekend or for the rest of the term? I'll write Mother as well, and do any other thing you can think of to be of help to her. Just tell me what to do.

Your loving daughter,

Di

* * *

9 October 1916

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Di,

The nursing class sounds like a good idea, and you have my permission to join it. I know that you will make a great success of it. And I also know that it can be a relief to have something to fight for in times like these.

You needn't be afraid to talk with me about matters such as medical school. You will be a fine doctor if that is the life you choose for yourself. You were always so good with patients here in the Glen. Have I never told you that before? I will not pretend that it will be an easy life for a woman, but I will support you if it is what you want.

We are doing all we can to care for your mother. I know that you would cure her if you could, as would I. I think that a weekend visit might do her some good, but only a little, and I would not ask it of you if the travel would be too hard on you and Nan. Talk it over with Faith — I trust you both to know what is best for your sister at the moment. If she needs rest, do not feel that you must come home. There is little enough to do here. Shirley came home from Charlottetown, but I intend to send him back by the end of the week. We all have our work and must do it the best we can.

Give all my love to Nan and my thanks to Faith and Sylvia. If you do decide to come home for a few days, I will be very glad to see you, too.

Love,

Dad

* * *

5 October 1916

Near Albert, France

Dear Faith,

Please don't worry about me. I am getting by alright. Jerry checks in on me and the boys in my section take good care of me, even though they pretend they aren't doing anything special. Whenever I come in from the damp, whoever is sitting in the driest spot tends to remember an urgent errand (and Emile is as good as Susan for urging food on me). I can't say I'm not grateful.

The oddest thing keeps happening. I keep forgetting. I'll find myself occupied with some task or other and when it is done, recollection will slam into me like a physical blow. Or else I'll wake up feeling fine and it takes a minute to remember what has happened. I almost think that the forgetting and remembering again hurts worse than it would to think about it constantly.

But I do forget. I keep thinking that I must run over and see him sometime soon. I did that a few times, you know, when I could get a pass and he was nearby. The last time I saw him was in August. He looked well (maybe even stronger than he was before the typhoid). I congratulated him on "The Piper" and its success, and he just smiled and said he'd thought of the old Rainbow Valley days when he wrote it. We parted well.

Don't worry about me, really. I am as well as can be under the circumstances.

My love to Nan and Di. How are they? Did they go home at all? How is my mother? Next time you are home, you'll check on her, won't you? And tell me how she is (how she really is, Faith — don't sugarcoat).

I don't have words for you, Faith. Just know that your old handkerchief is rather more threadbare than it once was.

All my love,

Jem

XXX

* * *

5 October 1916

Near Albert, France

Dear Shirley,

Dad writes that you came home from Charlottetown to help. Thank you for doing that. I know that things must be very hard there right now. I am sorry I can't be there as well. I know you will have to go back to town soon, but please go home on weekends if you can. I'm sure that it does Mother and Dad and Susan good to have you to fuss over. Let them, won't you?

I know you will be thinking of enlisting in the spring. I won't tell you not to. You will know your own mind on the subject. But do have a care for Mother. See if you can't delay a little while. I know you will want to do your bit and I respect that. I would only ask that you be as gentle as you can in going — not just for Mother's sake, but for Dad's and Susan's as well. Take care of them, won't you?

Love,

Jem

* * *

5 October 1916

Near Albert, France

Dear Dad,

I am well and unhurt. There is not very much to say beyond that, so I will not bother filling up paper to little purpose.

I had a visit yesterday from Walter's platoon commander. I used to run over there sometimes just to check in, and Lt. Archer remembered me and knew I was close by.* He told me that  _Walter was the bravest man in his regiment_. I believe it, too. You know how  _realities never scared him — only his imagination could do that_.**

Lt. Archer gave me some of Walter's letters and photos and other papers. I am sending them addressed to you instead of to Mum so that you can decide what to do with them. There are some poems among them (I read a few, but didn't think they were the sort I ought to send to her). I thought of burning them, but that didn't seem right either. There was a book, too, but I am not sending it, as it was in very bad shape. The sight of it was very upsetting, so I did burn that.

Tell Mum I am well — really, I am. How is she, Dad? Is there anything I can do for her? I wish I could come home to be with you all right now, but since I can't, I don't really know what to do. If you can think of anything at all, tell me straight away.

Please give my love to Rilla and Susan. I've written to Shirley and asked him to help you all if he can. I'll keep writing as often as I can so Mum doesn't have to go long between letters.

Love to all,

Jem

* * *

Notes:

*The 2nd and the 27th Battalions both marched through Warloy on the 4th of October, the 2nd on its way to Albert and the 27th on its way from Albert.

** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 35. In  _RoI_ , Jem attributes this information to the colonel of Walter's battalion, but I couldn't see a plausible way for a colonel to have that conversation with Jem, so I've scaled it down to a junior officer.


	25. Shreds of Consolation

**Shreds of Consolation**

* * *

12 October 1916

London

Dear Nan,

I am in London with Jem. Sgt. Barlow arranged things so that we could go on leave together. Technically, we are entitled to ten days of leave per year, but it's sometimes hard to come by. But they do try sometimes, and like I said, someone is always owing Jem a favor.

It all seems surreal. How can Walter be dead? Though, of course, out here, I often wonder how anyone stays alive. But to just hear that he is gone — it is a very hard thing to realize.

Being in London does not make it easier. I often thought that I would like to see London, but not like this. Big Ben looks just as it does in Miss Cornelia's stereoscope, and that makes it seem less real somehow — as if we're stuck in suspended imagination. We did not tour around; neither of us has the heart.

It seems that nothing should be beautiful at the moment. I was very glad that you have kept me in practice — perhaps these are the days when we most need to find the beauty that Walter loved.

I wanted to find something grand for you, here in the grand old city. But do you know what my beautiful thing was? The thing that made me thankful for the world, in spite of everything? It was bread. This morning, we found a bakery and bought some wonderful, fresh loaves. They cost a fortune and were worth every penny. I don't know what was better, the crackling, golden crust, or the inside, so improbably white and soft I almost laughed to see it. After so long on rations that make old Aunt Martha's cooking seem like haute cuisine, that bread made me think of God-given manna, tasting like wafers made from honey. It was beautiful.

Now, we're in a shabby little hotel with questionable plumbing and just one bed in the room, but it's warm enough and pretty quiet, except for Jem snoring. Two beautiful things, really — bread and Jem breathing, right where I can see him. I don't know how clean the bed is, but it isn't sunk in a foot of mud, so that's good enough for me.

I'm writing by a stub of candle stuck in the most garish candlestick you could imagine. It's all tarnished brass with enough fruit and cherubs to choke an ox and it looks absolutely ridiculous on a rickety old desk with a greasy little candle stuck in it. I wonder where it came from.

Please tell Faith that I have Jem in my keeping, if only for a little while. All I would ask is that she return the favor by keeping you close to her for my sake.

I can't keep my eyes open a minute longer, Nan. I'll post this letter tomorrow so you can have a postmark from London. We'll be back with the battalion in a few days, but for now, I'm alive and safe and warm, and it's awfully hard to think of much beyond that.

Love,

Jerry

P.S. I was about to post this, but decided to reopen it. I've kept up with the beautiful things — thank you for those, Nan, they have been important — but I have rather fallen down on our debates. But I have a question to put before you: Must a proposal of marriage always be made in person? Or is it sometimes permissible, under extreme circumstances, for it to be made from afar, perhaps by letter? I know which part I would take and fancy that I know your choice as well, but will do you the courtesy of allowing you to choose your own position.

* * *

24 October 1916

Pozieres, France

Dear Shirley,

I was awfully sorry to hear about Walter. I wish I were home in the Glen with you and Una right now. I would like nothing better than to sit with you in Rainbow Valley. I'm glad you have one another, at least.

We were in the trenches this past week and a half, but have been relieved and are resting in a village near Courcelette now. Well, what used to be a village. It has a name, but no buildings, just piles of rubble and oceans of mud. It is still very, very bad here.* Between the mud and the shelling and seeing men — friends — die in horrible agony — no one ever dies clean out here ——

I am so very grateful that you are at home safe with Una, not here in this mess.

Don't enlist, Shirley. I mean it.

Yours truly,

Carl

* * *

24 October 1916

Avonlea, PEI

Dearest Anne,

Forgive me for not writing sooner. I have tried many times to write a line these past few weeks and found that I could not.

We received Gilbert's letter about Walter the same day that we got a telegram of our own. Jack is very badly wounded. A head wound, they say, but no more information than that. He has been moved to a hospital in England, but he is still not out of danger. We got a letter from a V.A.D. nurse, but it is sparse on details in a way that gnaws at me.

Oh, Anne. Words cannot express my anguish at your news. I could say "I'm sorry" a million times and it would not begin to express my sorrow. I will not ask how you are; I will only say that I love you.

Anne, come to me in Avonlea. Or else let me come to you. I live for letters these days, but they are flimsy things. Come to me, so that we might cry in one another's arms and not have to be brave anymore.

Your bosom friend,

Diana

* * *

7 November 1916

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jerry,

Thank you for taking care of Jem. Faith said she was writing to you, so you would have all the awful particulars. I did write to you these past few weeks — pages upon pages — I would have had to send them in a parcel, rather than an envelope. But reading them over, I saw there was no sense and no comfort in them. I did not want to send you nothing but my unfiltered grief.

We do have one small solace: we have learned that Walter did not suffer. Mother and Dad had a letter from Walter's commanding officer informing them that he was killed instantly by a single bullet to the heart, just as his company went over the top. It may seem like little enough, but Rilla writes that it has eased Mother's distress to know that Walter did not die in agony.** I'm glad of it — we cling to the slightest shreds of consolation here. I will not call it beautiful, but that letter gave us a little relief when nothing else could, and we are all very grateful.

You ask my position on a weighty matter and I find that I do not know what to say. I think you know that my inclination would be toward the negative. Wasn't it you who told me once that all momentous things must be accomplished face-to-face?

But in present circumstances, I cannot deny that I yearn to answer in the affirmative. Is there a difference between a desperate desire and desperation? If there is, I cannot parse it.

I know that that is no answer at all. Write to me. Convince me of your position.

Yours always,

Nan

* * *

 

Notes:

*Carl's 87th Battalion spent 11 days in the trenches near Albert, France, 13-23 October 1916. From October 21-23, they suffered 281 casualties, including all but one of the officers who participated in their big attack (see War Diary of the 87th Battalion Canadian Infantry).

**"'Did Walter suffer much — he was always so sensitive to pain. Oh, Susan, if I knew that he didn't I think I could gather up a little courage and strength." This merciful knowledge was given to Rilla. A letter came from Walter's commanding officer, telling them that he had been killed instantly by a bullet during a charge at Courcelette." "It seems that gladness were killed in me — shot down by the same bullet that pierced Walter's heart."  _RoI_ , chapters 23-4


	26. Demosthenes Again

**Demosthenes Again**

* * *

Sent: 25 November 1916

Dranouter, Belgium

Dear Nan,

I am writing this letter in London but I will not send it unless you give me leave to do so. It is dry here, and I have a candle and a real table for a writing desk, as well as rather more time to myself than I expected. Jem sleeps and sleeps and I envy him that sort of oblivion. Even in a warm, dry bed, I lie awake. I can think of no better way to spend my sleepless hours than in writing this letter to you.

I thought perhaps I would write a letter telling you how much I love you. But what would I say? Mere repetition couldn't do it justice, and I'm no poet.

Instead, let me tell you how I came to love you. You'll know most of these stories, I expect — at least your half of them. But there is nothing that comforts me here like revisiting mine.

First, let me tell you of a time before I loved you. Do you remember that horrible day in school when somebody painted up our names with a "take notice" and a big crimson heart? Of course you do. I never did find out who did it, though I certainly tried. Well, I wasn't in love with you then — you were only 12, after all! But we had started to be very good friends that fall. I was missing Jem because he was away at Queen's, but I was surprised to find how well we got along. Or didn't. We were always fighting in those days, weren't we? Or  _debating_ , you would surely correct me. And I remember thinking that you were the smartest girl in Glen St. Mary, as well as the prettiest.

Then that awful "take notice" went up and you wouldn't even look at me. I tell you, Nan, I never felt so bad over anything before. I went the next day to paint over it, but by the time I got to the schoolhouse, someone had already painted it out. That was a relief, but I was still eaten up with worry that you would be cross with me and we'd never be friends again. Looking back, maybe that was the beginning — when I knew that losing your friendship would be a terrible thing.

I couldn't go to you — that might have made things worse. But miracle of miracles, you came to me. I was sitting by the spring in Rainbow Valley under the maples, fretting, and you appeared on the other side, just as I saw you that day when I woke in no man's land after Ypres. You crossed over and sat beside me and said bold as brass that you didn't care for me "in that way," but you would be very sorry to lose me as a friend. Gosh, Nan, that was brave. How did you get up the courage to do it? I was awfully glad you did.

After that, we were good chums, but I started to notice little things about you. You remember the day you found me studying English history in the old Methodist graveyard? I was studying for the Queen's entrance and having trouble keeping the dates of the various monarchs all sorted out. You came and sat by me and told me I was doing it all wrong. I'll never forget. "Kings and Queens aren't numbers, Jerry," you said. "They're stories!" And then you told me stories about Edward the Confessor and all the various Richards, and always found ways to weave the dates in so that they were easy to remember. You weren't even studying for the exams yet, you just loved to learn and it wasn't work for you.

But I don't think I actually suspected that I felt anything more than friendship for you until I went away to Queen's. Queen's was great fun, especially with Jem as a roommate. He was in his second year and he had the run of that school, I tell you. There was a dance one weekend in the fall term, so we stayed in town instead of going home as we usually did. Jem found us a couple of pretty girls to take to the dance — Jem never had to do anything but stretch out his hand and pretty girls seemed to emerge out of nowhere. And I remember thinking that the dance was very nice and the girl I was escorting was very nice, but I was not having a good time. The whole while, I was glum because I was missing a Saturday evening in the Glen, and it wasn't the manse I was pining for.

I tried to shake that off for a while. I was at Queen's! In town! Why should I be mooning over little Nan Blythe, even if she was the prettiest, smartest girl on the Island. I knew now that you weren't just the prettiest, smartest girl in the Glen, having seen some of what the rest of PEI had to offer. I remember all that fall, I would read something interesting or learn something in class and find myself saving it up to tell you on Saturday.

Then I was off to Redmond and not even home on weekends, and that was worse. How could I remember everything I wanted to tell you until Christmas? Do you remember the first letter I ever sent you? I invented some excuse to ask you a question about something I had read in my history course — just a short note. Demosthenes — do you remember? And a week later, I had one of your famous bullet-stoppers in my hand, detailing all the ways I had framed the question wrong. It was only polite of me to respond.

I won't tell you how much Jem teased me over those letters. I always offered to let him read them, so he could see there wasn't anything in them but "-ologies and -isms." There wasn't either. It was just the fact of them — that you were writing to me, and that my heart would race just to see my name in your handwriting on an envelope. And that pink paper. I remember the sound of it as much as anything.

Do you remember what Cicero said when asked which of Demosthenes' orations was his favorite? "The longest." It's the same with me and your letters, and always has been.

Well, that might have gone on indefinitely, but Jem started threatening to do something drastic to hurry me along. It was all his idea, the set-up at the Queen's convocation dance. But you might have guessed that. What you maybe won't have guessed is how nervous I was. When that ferry was late — I had never been so nauseous in my life. And then you'd promised all your dances, and I was spilling lemonade all over myself . . . I don't know what it looked like to you, but things definitely did not go as I had planned. But then you danced with me on the lawn, all smiling and dressed in gold, and I was a goner.

What can I say about the next year? That I've never been happier than I was that summer, arguing with you about anything and everything? That I started to let myself think about a future with you in it? I'll never forget the time that next Christmas when you fell asleep on my shoulder in the middle of making a point about Oliver Cromwell because that's the moment I knew I had to get up the courage to ask you to marry me someday. I'm only sorry I didn't wake you up and do it right then. It would have been ridiculous and sudden and much too soon, but that's the sort of thinking that's left me leaving things far too late.

I love you, Nan. I don't want to leave you in any doubt about my devotion nor my intentions. If I ever get home, I'll do this properly and ask you face-to-face, as I should have done before I went away. Since that isn't possible right now, I will do the best I can.

Nan Blythe, will you marry me?

Jerry


	27. The Lady of Shalott

**The Lady of Shalott**

* * *

14 December 1916

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jerry,

I suppose you will want to hear the story of how I fell in love with you. I have started this letter half a dozen times and found that I could not tell it. It has vexed me considerably, as I was never one who needed much excuse to tell a story. I have been wondering over it these last two days.

You will never guess what the trouble was, so I will tell you. Paper. I had been trying to write on that dratted economy paper and the story just wouldn't take root in it. That horrible paper — the paper that means separation and shortage and suffering — this story doesn't belong to it.

I went to my room and turned out every drawer. These are the last three sheets of my old pink onionskin, and I will have to write small to confine myself to them.

When did I fall in love with you? It is not one grand story, but a thousand tiny ones, every one of them insignificant and perfect in itself, like snowflakes. You accumulated in my heart, so that when I realized what you were to me, it was the undamming of an avalanche.

You write of the "take notice" painted on the schoolhouse wall. How could I forget it? I'm the one who painted over it. Whoever painted it in the first place did a thorough job - it took me three or four coats to cover it!

As for my coming to find you that day, you can thank my father for that — he saw me painting and gave me some good advice. Of course, that was long before I had read the letters that he and Mother wrote to one another during their engagement. I remember thinking  _what does he know about it anyway_? Rather a lot, I now suspect. He told me to go find you, and I'm glad that I listened. I can still see you there at the spring - how glum you looked before you spotted me and how hopeful after.

How I wish I had the paper of that Demosthenes letter over again! I would fill it with a hundred stories. The first time I recited in public and you squeezed my hand for luck before I went onstage. The May evening Di and I were reciting "The Lady of Shalott" out under the Tree Lovers and you came home, whistling through Rainbow Valley and I found I could not choke out the line about Lancelot's coal-black curls. The evening you carried me up the beach when I twisted my ankle at the rock shore. The unaccountable pride I felt when I heard that you had won the Gold Medal at Queen's. And, of course, my own convocation dance. You say you were nervous — how can that be? I never saw you spill lemonade. Every word you said to me that evening was so like something I had imagined that I scarcely trust my recollection, then or now.

I am half sick of shadows, Jerry. To wait like this, watching years slip away through our very fingers — it is beyond enduring, though what can we do but endure? I sew my Red Cross sheets like charmed webs, trying to stave off both joy and fear by weaving steadily. I am half afraid to invite curses by leaving my loom, even for joy.

That looks terribly foolish, written out in black and pink. But the truth is that I still believe in the dreams we dreamed before the war, even if perhaps we did not speak of them as we should have. I believe in law school and marriage and a life together, and that you will have a chance to ask me your question face-to-face, not in a letter. It seems that saying yes now would be some sort of failsafe against unthinkable possibilities — that saying yes would be as good as an admission of having thought them. And with everything the war has taken from us, I refuse to concede this moment to it.

So here I sit; half-sick, half-afraid, but wholly yours. When you come home and ask me the same question, I will answer yes. Do not doubt that for a moment. It is only stubbornness and a curious fear of Tennyson that keeps me from filling these last pages with yes and yes again. I will hold my yes inside my heart and guard it for you, that you may claim it when you come home to me.

For now, belovedest, take these pages and keep them close, as I do yours. Since the day your precious letter arrived at Aster House, I have not slept, nor eaten, nor attended a lecture, nor cooked a meal, nor basted a hem without having it in my pocket. If the force of my love could keep you safe, you might walk through the rest of this war with perfect peace of mind. Since it cannot, I send you these lines, weaving the only charm I know.

Love and love and love,

Nan


	28. And Luckier

**And Luckier**

* * *

30 December 1916

Ourton, France

Dear Nan,

That is certainly the most charming not-yes I could possibly imagine. And while I would have been perfectly satisfied with three pages double-sided in yes and yes again, I don't think such repetition would be as precious as this little piece of your heart.

Have I told you often enough that you would make a fine lawyer? You've never yet met a distinction you couldn't slice into thirds. I mean that as a compliment — perhaps I have already mentioned that I always knew that you were the smartest girl in Canada, as well as the prettiest. On the whole, it is rather a good thing for me that you do not wish to be admitted to the bar — I would not want to see you opposite me in a courtroom.

I think perhaps that I ought to be more disappointed. But I don't think I can be, as I am wholly persuaded. I should never want to cross Tennyson. And I knew at once that you were right: such a promise should be made in person. Forgive me for asking as a failsafe — you were right about that, too.

The moment I opened your envelope, I gasped to see your pink onionskin again.  _Petal paper_ , I used to call it. It is so completely out of place here that it seems transported from another universe. I keep it in the pocket closest to my heart, and if it will not stop a bullet, at least it will keep me going in other ways. It is certainly my beautiful thing today, and many days in future, I expect.

 _You_  painted over the take notice? Oh, Nan! I can just picture you, in your little pink dress and one of those frilly pinafores you used to wear, with your cute little nose in the air, painting the side of the schoolhouse! How have you never told me this story before? Thank you for that,  _belovedest_ , both for doing the painting in the first place and for presenting me with such an amusing image now. I will cherish it until I come home and paint it over with yeses.

Tirra lirra,

Jerry

* * *

5 December 1916

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Fred,

We are very glad to hear that Jack is on the mend. From your letter, it sounds as if he has a long recovery ahead of him, and head injuries are always unpredictable. But believe me, Fred, if he can dictate a letter, he is in better shape than I would have dared to hope from your earlier description of his wound. That may be cold comfort, but I have not given up hope for him and neither should you.

I'm sure you know that Diana has invited Anne to Avonlea and that Anne has declined the invitation. Anne is not well. She grows morbid here — I think it would do her good to see Diana and to have a change of scenery. I have been working to persuade her to go, and think I may be succeeding. I could bring her out on the train and she could stay with you a week or so. I know she will want to be home for Christmas, though the thought of Christmas this year is appalling.

I know there is nothing Diana can say to comfort her. Certainly I have failed in that respect. But perhaps grieving together will help them both.

Write and tell me that I may bring Anne to you. Write as if it is a foregone conclusion, not a request, that I might prod her conscience with the prospect of disappointing Diana. I don't know what else to do.*

Courage,

Gilbert

* * *

15 December 1916

Charlottetown, PEI

Dear Carl,

The war won't be over by April. I can't think of any better way to honor Walter than by taking up the unfinished work. I won't break faith.

Yours truly,

Shirley

* * *

10 January 1917

Near Frevillers, France

Dear Shirley,

We had quite a scare today. The gas alarm went off and we all had to scramble into our gas masks and wait in the dark for hours and hours, hoping we'd put them on correctly. It turned out to be a false alarm, but that did not lessen my imagination any.

I can't keep you from enlisting, however much I might wish I could. But see if there is some way that you might serve that does not put you at quite such a risk of choking to death on poison gas. I can see it too clearly.

Yours truly,

Carl

P.S. My Christmas parcel arrived safely. Someone seems to have slipped a leaf of sweet flag into it.

* * *

31 December 1916

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Jem,

Thank you for your letters. I know you have been making an effort to write more often, and it does me good to hear from you frequently. You need not fret so, though. Dad and Susan and Rilla are taking good care of me. Dad and I went over to Avonlea before Christmas to see Aunt Diana and Uncle Fred, and that has helped as well. I would tell you not to worry if I thought it would do any good, but knowing that it will not, I will only say thank you and that you need not overtax yourself in reassuring me.

Sweetheart, none of this is your fault. You did everything you could for Walter. He wrote to me and told me of your visits to him. Thank you so much for doing that, darling. It comforts me to know that he had seen you, and knew that you were looking out for his welfare.

But listen to me, Jem. There was nothing more you could have done. There was nothing more I could do, and I certainly tried. The war isn't your fault, and Walter enlisting isn't your fault, and nothing after that is your fault either. You loved him and he knew it. What more can anyone do?

Forgive yourself, sweetheart. I know you. I know that you want to set the world to rights. You always did. But self-recrimination will not bring him back. Keep him always in your heart, as I do, and that will be enough.

Thank you for trying to help from afar. I know what it means to you to be away from home right now.

The girls are here for the New Year. They were delayed by our blizzard before Christmas, but they managed to come for a few days just the same. Faith is looking very well — all rosy and strong and thriving on work and more work. She came to check in on me, as I am sure she will inform you, and we had a lovely visit. I always knew I would love her from the very first day Miss Cornelia described her to me.** If she is reporting on me, I feel that I should also report on her and tell you that she is in excellent health and spirits. She is one of those who can spend herself and never be depleted by it. Like you, sweetheart.

There is nothing for you to do, Jem, except take care of yourself. In doing so, you will always oblige

Your Loving Mother

* * *

31 December 1916

Offices of  _The Spectator_ , London

Dear Mrs. Blythe,

Thank you for your submission of "The Aftermath" by your son, Private Walter Blythe. I understand that Pte. Blythe was killed in action at Courcelette this past September; please accept my deepest and most heartfelt condolences.

As you know, our paper published Pte. Blythe's poem, "The Piper," to vast acclaim last spring. It has been one of our most successful pieces of verse, and is perhaps the great poem of this great war.***

However, the piece you sent — "The Aftermath" — is a poem of a very different sort. I cannot, in good conscience, accept it for publication at a time when our boys are still struggling so valiantly in the trenches.

That is not to say that it is without merit. As a poetry critic, I confess there is something in it — something new and terrible and heart-rending — that strikes me to the very soul. But as the poetry editor of a popular newspaper, I cannot publish it.

I am very sorry for your loss.

Do not break faith,

Mr. Charles W. Goddard

_The Spectator_

* * *

[Inscription]

December 1916

Mother,

I know that you once had a copy of this book, and that you don't anymore. I don't think you knew that I had read it.

Please take my own copy. I can order another in town. I have marked a page, thinking that it might mean something to you as well.

Love,

Shirley

[Bookmark: Walt Whitman,  _Leaves of Grass_ , "Song of Myself," Section 6]

_A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;  
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he._

_I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven._

_Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,_  
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,  
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

_Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation._

_Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,_  
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,  
Growing among black folks as among white,  
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.

_And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves._

_Tenderly will I use you curling grass,_  
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,  
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,  
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps,  
And here you are the mothers' laps.

 _This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,_  
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,  
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

_O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,  
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing._

_I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,  
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps._

_What do you think has become of the young and old men?  
And what do you think has become of the women and children?_

_They are alive and well somewhere,_  
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,  
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,  
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

_All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,  
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier._

* * *

 

Notes:

*"Father and mother went up to Avonlea. Father thought the change would do mother good, and they wanted to see poor Aunt Diana, whose son Jack had been seriously wounded a short time before."  _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 24

**"I'm going to like your Faith." Anne to Miss Cornelia,  _Rainbow Valley_ , chapter 2.

***"A Canadian lad in the Flanders trenches had written the one great poem of the war. 'The Piper,' by Pte. Walter Blythe, was a classic from its first printing."  _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 19


	29. Embarkations

**Embarkations**

* * *

30 January 1917

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Dad,

Faith has had a letter from Rev. Meredith. He has given his consent for her to go to England at the end of the term to join the Voluntary Aid Detachment as a nurse.

Please, Dad, let me go, too. I know everything you said at Christmas is true. But there is such demand for nurses in England. Most of the V.A.D.s don't have much training, nor nearly as much experience as I have. You know I'm good at this. I could do so much to help there.

I wouldn't be going alone. Faith will be there, and Sylvia is going as well. You know the Atlantic crossing is nowhere near as dangerous as it was a few years ago. And with the spring offenses coming, as we know they will, the need will be greater than ever.

Please, Dad. I can do this work. Please let me.

Your loving daughter,

Di

* * *

7 February 1917

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Di,

I know that you are an excellent nurse. I never knew anyone as sure-handed as you are. Of course you could do good work in England. That isn't the issue at all.

Di, your mother is not well. You know that Walter's death has been hard on her, but I cannot tell you the half of it. You must trust me when I say that it is necessary for you to stay.

Shirley will be 18 in a few months. He  _pores day and night over aviation literature and says nothing_ , but it is plain enough that he is counting the hours until his birthday.* I will not permit him to enlist unless your mother says that he may, but I think it will be difficult to prevent him if he sets his mind to it.

The same is true of you. I cannot give my consent unless your mother does, but it is not in my power to prevent your going. You are 21 years old and must follow your own conscience.

But I will also note that the crossing is no longer as safe as it once was. The Germans have started up unrestricted submarine warfare again this week, as you must have heard since you wrote your letter.** It will push the Americans into the war and perhaps we will see an end at last.

I cannot command you to stay, Di, but I can ask it of you. Please, sweetheart, things are very hard already. You can do good work at Kingsport Hospital, especially if many of the other nurses are leaving. I know you do not want to be left behind, but I would ask you to stay nevertheless.

I would also observe that the demand for good nurses will always be insatiable. This war will swell the ranks of nursing throughout the Commonwealth with talented and experienced practitioners, but we will also find that it has decimated the ranks of doctors. Many doctors have lost their lives at the front and countless young men will never return to become the doctors they should have been. The profession will never be able to tally its losses. 

You know our need here on the Island, especially with Dr. Anderson from Mowbray Narrows gone to join the army. Dr. Parker and I are very short-handed. We are neither of us very young and I shudder to think what might happen in an emergency. I expect the situation is similar all over, and unlikely to get better anytime soon. My colleagues inform me that Redmond graduated only nine new doctors in the class of 1916, and most of them have already gone to the army.***

You might, I think, consider this an opportunity to make a lifelong difference by staying at Redmond to finish your degree with the aim of enrolling in the medical school with the class of 1921. We will need you even more after the war than we do right now, and that is quite a lot already.

Love,

Dad

* * *

10 March 1917

Dear Faith,

Well, you have finally broken your rule and sent me a letter I was sorrier to receive than not.

I certainly do know what it is to feel called to a particular duty. I just wish that yours could be fulfilled on the safe side of the Atlantic. We do get war news here, too, you know, so there is no use hoping I won't have heard about submarine warfare and zeppelins over London and all the rest, never mind all the normal dangers that come with working in a hospital.

If you are determined to join the V.A.D., I know I can't change your mind and I won't really try. But do, for just a moment, consider staying home safe in Kingsport instead. Surely there is good work to be done in a city that is not in much danger of being bombed.

I love you, Faith. I want you happy and I want you safe. I know you were never one to sit at home and spin, and I never wished you otherwise until right now (and even now, if I'm honest, I wouldn't have you any other way). Only take as good care of yourself as you possibly can. And write every single chance you get. Even a line. Don't save up letters, writing a bit at here and a bit there until they're good and long — just send them (even blank pages) so that I know that you're still well enough to send them.

If there is one consolation in this, perhaps it is that letters to and from England take only a few days to arrive. And more than that — the Tommies get to go home on their leave. It will be a while yet before I'm due another round of leave, but perhaps I could run over and see you for a couple of days when I am. If I could, that would go a long way toward reconciling me.

By the time you get this, term will be nearly over and you'll be getting ready to ship out. Know that I'll be thinking of you every minute, and write me the very moment you set foot in England.

You'll be brilliant.

Love,

Jem

XXX

P.S. Wear your life vest the whole time you are on the ship. Every second, even when you're asleep.

P.P.S. Congratulations on your B.A. I should have started with that. I'm so proud of you.

* * *

6 April 1917

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jem,

Everything is set at last. The Dean of Redmond has consented to let those of us who are leaving for England sit our term exams early so that we may receive our degrees in absentia. Sylvia and I are studying day and night, with help from Nan and Di.

Di has decided to remain in Kingsport. Your father would not give his consent for her to go to England with us, but acknowledged that he could not stop her if she insisted. She nearly did, but has chosen to stay and keep up her studies, with the aim of enrolling in the medical school once she has taken her degree. I am glad to be going to England to serve in the current crisis, but I must admit a pang of envy.

We sit our exams in two weeks and then ship out immediately after. I do not know where I will be assigned, but I will write to you as soon as possible so that you will have my new address. And when you do have leave, even a minute of it, come over and see me. I won't be able to transfer to France until I turn 23 next January, but you can bet I'll be there as soon as I can manage.

All my love,

Faith

* * *

8 April 1917

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Carl,

I went into town today and enlisted in the Royal Flying Corps.**** I've been thinking of flying ever since you mentioned those reconnaissance planes that saved your convoy from the U-boat so long ago. Mum and Dad didn't want to let me, but I've been eighteen for nearly a week and can't wait another minute.

The RFC training is longer than regular infantry training because we have to do much of the same basic training and then also learn to fly the aeroplanes. If I can qualify, I'll be commissioned as a pilot officer, which is like a second lieutenant in army terms. If I do qualify, I should be in France by the fall or winter at the latest.

I haven't told Susan yet. She's been spoiling me these past few months and I hate to disappoint her, but the thing's just got to be done.*****

The folks at home say to tell you they miss you very much and think of you every day. You keep your head down a while longer and I'll see if I can't give you a hand.

Yours truly,

Shirley

* * *

8 April 1917

Camblain-l'Abbé, France

Dear Nan,

I had a letter from Faith saying she means to come to England at the end of the term — know that I'm praying for her safe crossing. I saw Jem a few days ago and I think he may not sleep until he gets a letter from her with an English postmark.

Is it true that the Yankees have declared war at last? I suppose I'll be able to get an answer before this letter can reach you. But we've heard rumblings of it before that have come to nothing. I tell you, we could use the help out here. Though even if they have declared, I guess it will be a long while before they are in the trenches with us.

Not in time, I fear. There's a big fight coming, Nan, and nothing to do but trust to Providence and send my love to you.

On our way through the countryside, we marched through a village. I thought I recognized it, but could not place it in my memory until I saw the church. I don't know whether it is the same church I noticed when we passed by this way two years ago — the places are unrecognizable.****** Whatever this church once was, it is just a pile of rubble now. I wish that I could say that I still found something beautiful there — some saint's carved face or a shard of stained glass, still lovely in the midst of such terrible destruction.

But the truth is that it is such a pointless waste I can't bear to look for beauty there. All these little medieval churches survived Agincourt and Crécy in the days of knights and armor; they stood all through the blood and suffering of the Thirty Years' War in Charles I's time. I know those wars were terrible, too. But none of them blasted the little village churches off the face of the earth. All those centuries of history, the craftsmanship and the prayers of the people who built them, all the baptisms and weddings and funerals of people who worshipped there — we've destroyed their sacred places. For what? They were beautiful, but they aren't any longer.

Last night, some benighted soul decided to serenade us all with "Will Ye Go Tae Flanders." And I thought, now there's a song that's two centuries old. The Duke of Marlborough and all those Hieland laddies dying in this same mud in the War of the Spanish Succession. And who even remembers it now? You do. I know. But in general, who cares who sat the Spanish throne in 17-oh-whenever? Kings and kaisers will go on fighting one another forever and ever and ever. Meanwhile, we've been marching over the same three inches of ground for two years and nothing to show for it but Jack Pringle dead and buried and that lovely little church smashed to rubble.

Send me something beautiful, Nan. I am finding it very hard.

Love,

Jerry

* * *

Notes:

* _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 22

**In 1915, Germany placed restrictions on targeting civilian and neutral vessels with its U-boats (in part due to pressure by the United States after the sinking of the  _Lusitania_  in May 1915). On February 1, 1917, Germany resumed unrestricted submarine warfare, allowing U-boats to target any ship, military or civilian, from any country. This was one of the factors (along with the Zimmerman Telegraph) that finally pushed the United States into the war in April of 1917.

***Jem would have graduated with the class of 1916, if not for the war. Dalhousie Medical School did indeed graduate nine young men in 1916, one of its smallest classes of the 20th century.

**** Most Canadian pilots served in the Royal Flying Corps or Royal Naval Air Service. On April 1, 1918, the RFC and RNAS merged to form the Royal Air Force (RAF).

*****"They did not tell Susan right away. She did not know it until, a few days later, Shirley presented himself in her kitchen in his aviation uniform. Susan didn't make half the fuss she had made when Jem and Walter had gone. She said stonily, "So they're going to take you, too." "Take me? No. I'm going, Susan—got to."  _RoI_ , Chapter 25:  _Shirley Goes_

******It probably is not the same village — Jerry was in Essars, France when he wrote about the little medieval church, and is near Camblain-l'Abbé now. The two towns are only 15 miles apart, though, so it might have seemed like familiar territory.

* * *

 


	30. With Mine Own Hand

**With Mine Own Hand**

* * *

MARITIME TELEGRAM COMPANY  
VIA CHARLOTTETOWN  
FROM OTTAWA ONT APRIL 16 1917

REV JOHN K. MEREDITH  
GLEN ST MARY PEI

REGRET TO INFORM YOU PVT GERALD MEREDITH GRAVELY WOUNDED IN BACK VIMY RIDGE APRIL 9 1917

* * *

18 April 1917

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Beloved Jerry,

Once, long ago, you wrote me a letter asking if you could run over and see me, just for an afternoon. It was February and I had only just seen you at Christmas and thought I would not see you again until summer. Do you remember?

When I first saw that letter lying on the table in the entry at Mrs. Hamilton's, I felt a pang of disappointment. It was so thin — clearly not a lengthy argument I could sink my teeth into, nor a delicious account of all your doings in Kingsport. I confess that I frowned when I picked it up and it weighed nothing. A single sheet? Was that all?

I took it upstairs with me and opened it in my room. You never saw that room, but there was a little window seat overlooking a cherry tree — I liked to read your letters there. But it was February, and everything gray and brown and desolate, and I remember feeling like perhaps your letter could wait. Not even a letter — just a note by the feel of it.

But I opened it. And it asked if you could come over to the Island and see me. It didn't say why, but that hardly mattered. It was springtime in an envelope.

You told me you made up your mind to propose someday when I fell asleep discussing Cromwell. You should know that I made up my mind to accept someday when I got that note. Every complaint I had — the weather, a bad day at school, a foolish disappointment at the slightness of your correspondence — all dissolved in an instant by the promise that you were on your way to me. And knowing that — that your brief presence on an unknown errand was enough set my heart singing — I knew then that I wanted you for always.

I cannot tell you what these past few days have meant to me, so I will not try. I have not fallen into the error of making one of my old bargains with God, but only because I have nothing valuable enough to offer.*

We say goodbye to Faith and Sylvia tomorrow. Di is going to take me home after that, so do not expend a bit of energy in worrying over me. I have no address for you, so I am entrusting this letter to Faith, in every sense. If only I could fold myself into it and stow away in her valise. Since I cannot, I am sending a small parcel — don't worry, I sewed it up myself, so no one saw what was in it. I'd advise you not to open it in front of Faith. All I would ask is that you bring it back to me as soon as you can — I'll be needing it when you return.

I know you will write to me as soon as you can. Just keep breathing and I will endeavor to do the same.

Yours, now and always,

Nan

* * *

13 April 1917

Casualty Clearing Station #7, Agnez-le-Duisans, France

Dear Nan,

Please forgive the unfamiliar handwriting. I am dictating this letter, but I am alive and in stable condition, so do not let the handwriting alarm you. I would write myself but I have to stay on my stomach and very still, so writing is awkward.

I know you will want to know what happened, but the truth is that I don't know much. In the middle of everything, I just felt a very strong jolt, as if I had been kicked in the side by a horse, and after that is a blur of shouting and stretchers and feeling like I was sinking into deep, dark water. They gave me rather a lot of morphine and it is hard to know what was real and what was not.

I know you'll be worried and I hate to think of you upset. I hope this letter gets sent on a fast ship. The doctors say that I have lost a lot of blood, but that has stopped now and I am still alive, so they rather tend toward optimism on my behalf.

They are going to send me on to a general hospital. I don't know where, yet, but I will write as soon as I do.

Really, Nan, I am all right. Just sleepy. It is hard to stay awake much. But it appears that I am not in any danger of dying just at present.

Please write. It is awfully lonely here, knowing that no one knows where I am and any letters you might send will take weeks and weeks to find me.

I guess I can sign my own name, just to show you it really is me. Like Paul's epistles in the Bible, dictated, but signed  _with mine own hand_.

L O V E

J E R R Y

* * *

Notes:

* _Anne of Ingleside_ , chapters 25 and 26 detail Nan's adventures in bargaining with God


	31. No Particular Damage

**No Particular Damage**

* * *

13 May 1917

London

Dear Jem,

I am safe in London. I have Jerry's location; last anyone heard, he was alive and stable.

I arrived this morning to find that Father had sent a telegram to Devonshire House, saying that Jerry is in Bramshott Military Hospital.* That's only about 50 miles from London, and I'm headed down on the train in the morning, after I finalize my V.A.D. paperwork. That will take a few weeks to process and in the meantime I'll be able to stay in Bramshott. Sylvia will stay with me while we wait for our assignments. I'll send you an address when I have one, but in the meantime write to Jerry at Bramshott and I'll get your letters through him.

I will write again once I have seen Jerry.

All my love,

Faith

* * *

17 May 1917

Barlin, France

Dear Faith,

Thank God you are safe. It has been a wretched month here, with Jerry wounded and you out on the water with the godforsaken U-boats and the mess at Vimy and losing Lt. Meade and everything else. I am well and unhurt, but that has counted for little enough these past few weeks.

I was back of the line at the CCS just after Vimy Ridge and ran into a man from Jerry's platoon (Archie Hanford — when you see Jerry, tell him that Archie is well and all the boys from his section came through alright except for Higgins (which he already knows) and Morgan, who lost part of his foot to shrapnel, but the last anyone heard of him he was doing alright and is probably bound for Canada with that injury, the lucky bastard).

Anyway, Archie told me that Jerry had been hit and that was the first I heard of it. He knew it was bad and they were sending Jerry on to one of the bigger hospitals, but didn't know more than that. They must have taken Jerry to a different CCS and there was no way for me to get any more information. I did get a short note from Jerry two weeks ago — dictated — but that was the last I heard.

Be careful, love. There are an awful lot of soldiers moving around these days. I know you can take care of yourself. But be careful anyway.

Say hello to Jerry for me. If he is well enough, punch him for scaring me.

I love you, Faith.

Yours always,

Jem

XXX

* * *

23 May 1917

Bramshott, Hampshire, England

Dear Jem,

I have seen Jerry and he is in stable condition. The wound was a bad one, but the doctors say that his prognosis is good. He was shot in the lower right flank, and the worst of it is that his liver was nicked, so he lost a lot of blood. If it had been an inch one direction or the other, it might have clipped his intestine or his kidney, but he was so very lucky. He lost a lot of blood and then traveled a long way, but he was lucid enough and as glad to see me as I was to see him. I did not punch him, but I conveyed your love anyway.

I think he will be alright, Jem. His is in good hands and there is no reason to think he will not begin to improve with good care and good cheer. I was able to bring him a letter and a parcel from Nan and I think that helped.

Thank you for sending word of Jerry's section. He said that he knew about Higgins, having seen for himself, but thanks you for passing on word of Morgan. Now that is the last news I will be relaying on his behalf because he is quite well enough to write on his own if he only applies himself.

Sylvia and I have been in Bramshott for more than a week, and are still waiting to hear from the V.A.D. As soon as we hear of our assignment, we will report immediately. Of course, if there were anything more I could do for Jerry, I would stay longer. But he is healing and my continued presence is no particular boon. I'm here to work and do my bit the same as everyone, and I mean to. If I am stationed in London, I will try to run down to see Jerry when I can. The V.A.D.s are supposed to get a half day off every week and seven days of leave in the first six months of service. I don't know if they really do, but I will make every effort.

May I ask what you were doing at the CCS if you are unhurt?

Don't think I'll forget about that.

Love,

Faith

* * *

24 May 1917

Bramshott Military Hospital, England

Dear Jem,

I am writing to show you that I can. Faith scolded me within an inch of my life and says I am well enough to keep up with my own correspondence. It is good to see her angry — certainly breaks up the monotony of staring at the floor all day. They say I may be able to turn over soon. For now, I'm alive and the doctors say I am out of danger, whatever that means.

I have the strangest feeling as I lie here, that I have abandoned my section. Certainly the boys would not grudge me my hospital bed — I badgered Faith into translating my medical chart for me and know how close I was to bleeding to death. But they are still out there, and I am here, "out of danger." How can that be? I turn it over and over in my mind and can make no sense of it.

Jerry

* * *

24 May 1917

Bramshott Military Hospital, England

Dear Nan,

As you can see, I am well enough to write my own letters now. Not very long ones, I am afraid, but no more dictation, which is a relief.

I am doing better and the doctors assure me that all that is left to do is rest and let my body make new blood. I have seen Faith and she assures me that the liver regenerates, which she seemed to intend as encouragement. I am still quite sleepy, but am awake for longer stretches of time every day.

Thank you for the piece of lace. It is beautiful. For some reason, I thought that it would be scratchy or stiff, but of course that doesn't make any sense. You would need it to be soft against your skin. I will certainly bring this piece back to you, but you had better make some more, as I fear that this bit will be worried to rags by the time you see it again.

I lie here, thinking of you weaving steadily. Or lace-making steadily, I suppose. In any case, know that I am safe and, if not well, at least getting better. But do have a care for your theology, Nan. Between the bargains and the curses, I can't tell whether you're turning papist or pagan.

All my love,

Jerry

* * *

28 May 1917

Barlin, France

Dear Faith,

I am fine. I just had a little sliver of shrapnel I needed removed. All better now.

If you need proof that I am perfectly well, know that we played a game of baseball today (officers against NCOs). I hit a double and caught two fly balls (but the officers won all the same, 15-6). So you will see that I am in excellent form and no need to worry.

All my love to you, gorgeous.

Jem

XXX

* * *

1 June 1917

St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London

Dear Jem,

Surely you are aware that having shrapnel wounds that must be treated by medical personnel counts as  _being wounded_  and is irreconcilable with the word  _unhurt_. I notice you don't say exactly  _where_  this shrapnel was embedded. You may as well tell me, as I intend to make a thorough examination next time I see you.

I love you, you infuriating man. No more shrapnel, if you please.

Faith

P.S. They have taken me on at St. Mary's (Sylvia as well), so write to me here.

* * *

4 June 1917

Bois des Alleux, France

Dear Faith,

I am vastly entertained by the prospect of you searching for my shrapnel scar. Therefore, I decline to tell you where it is. I will only say that it is just a scar, having done no particular damage, which is why it was not worth mentioning when we were so worried about Jerry.

Do tell me how Jerry is. I did get a letter from him, but your professional opinion would go a long way toward reassuring me.

More baseball here. The officers won again the other day, but the score was 11-10, so you will see that we are improving (I hit a triple and a single).**

Send me news, particularly if it is good.

Love,

Jem

XXX

* * *

Notes:

*Devonshire House in London was the headquarters of the Voluntary Aid Detachment.

**see War Diary of the 2nd Canadian Infantry Battalion. They really did spend those weeks after Vimy Ridge playing baseball like a bunch of Yanks.


	32. The Companionship of Fellow Creatures

**The Companionship of Fellow Creatures**

* * *

11 June 1917

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Jerry,

I have your letter in my hand and one from Faith as well, assuring me that you are on the mend. I cannot begin to convey my relief through words, nor my gratitude through prayer.

I hate to think of you suffering, Jerry. But for the first time in years, I can finally bear to imagine you — safe, recovering, in a hospital with good, hot food and a clean, warm bed. Faith says that you need only get stronger and suggests that you may be well enough to travel in a few months' time. I dare not repeat the old falsehood about Christmas, for fear it would shatter the possibility. But I begin to hope.

I went over to the manse last Thursday to do a little sewing with Una. Over tea, your father was very intent on explaining the world-historical importance of William Tyndale's English translation of the Bible. I asked whether Tyndale, for all his genius, wasn't a bit too anti-clerical in his translation and the long and the short of it is that I came home weighed down with half a dozen books about Desiderius Erasmus and the Protestant Reformation. It was very kind of your father to lend them to me — he did insist — but it made me feel that I must really read them thoroughly, which I am now doing.

I guess I never really knew much about Erasmus other than calumnies against him by Luther. But I find myself nodding in sympathy with many of his counter-Reformation arguments. Surely free will must exist, as Erasmus argues contra Luther. If humans can do nothing of their own volition to bring themselves closer to God, why strive at all? Clearly, Luther's criticisms of the excesses of the Catholic Church were well-founded, but I am persuaded by Erasmus's point that no ends — no matter how worthy — could justify the century of violence ignited by the Reformation.

There, now. I imagine that should be enough to have you rousing from your torpor to find a pen. Tell me all about Erasmus's errors and we shall proceed from there.

In the meantime, know that I have quite a lot more lace made already, and another piece in progress. I get my Red Cross sewing done in the morning and spend evenings with my bobbins. Do bring that piece home, though — I shall always, always want it, no matter what sort of shape it is in.

Love, and Hope, and Thankfulness,

Nan

* * *

19 June 1917

Camp Borden, Ontario

Dear Carl,

I flew solo for the first time today. I must confess it was something of a disappointment. I felt the earth falling away below me and all at once I felt terribly homesick,  _adrift in space_ , and I had  _a wild desire to get back home to the old planet and the companionship of fellow creatures_. I have dreamed of flying, but I did not anticipate that sensation of loneliness.* I begin to see the allure of ants and bugs and creepy-crawly things that stay close to one another and to the earth.

I go up again tomorrow. And day after that. And the next. I do not know whether I will get used to the sensation, but I know that this is something I can be good at, and do my bit well. The instructor says I have a real knack for flying and I hope he is right. I've done several landings with the instructors and had no problem solo today, so I hope I may qualify yet.

Yours truly,

Shirley

* * *

8 July 1917

Zouave Valley, France

Dear Shirley,

I am glad to hear that you see the value in little creatures now. I confess that even my affection for them is somewhat overtaxed in the filth of present conditions.

Of course you will qualify. You have many hidden talents.

Though, perhaps you will forgive me for saying that the RFC is not  _quite_  what I had in mind when I suggested that you try to keep out of the infantry. I'm sure you are an excellent pilot. You certainly have the nerves to withstand it, while I certainly don't.

Yours truly,

Carl

* * *

12 August 1917

Camp Borden, Ontario

Dear Carl,

I have qualified as a pilot with the rank of pilot officer.

We will ship out for England soon, where we will have more training. It is likely that I will be in France by Christmas.

Hang in there a bit longer.

Yours truly,

Shirley

P.S. Have you taken any leave yet this year? If you have any due, you might save it a while.

* * *

14 September 1917

King's Canadian Red Cross Hospital, Bushy Park, Richmond, England

Dear Nan,

Write as many letters as you like, but you will not convince me that Henry VIII did wrong in executing Sir Thomas More! Certainly I cede your point about the annulment of Henry's marriage to Catherine of Aragon, but you can't seriously be arguing that he had no right to separate from the Catholic Church! Of course he had! And as for Sir Thomas More, of course his execution was not an ideal outcome, but what is a king to do when one of his councillors refuses to affirm him as head of the Church? It's perfectly alright to have empathy for More as a fellow human being, but if you want me to feel grieved over an execution, you might open  _Foxe's Book of Martyrs_  and pick a page at random. Or start with John Rogers if you are in need of inspiration!

I'm settling into the new hospital quite well. Things are more relaxed here, as it is a convalescent hospital and all the patients are just working on getting stronger. We have a recreation hall with a piano and a little library, and they are constructing a new gymnasium, all in the midst of a beautiful, green park. I am much closer to Faith now and she was able to run over and see me last week — she is well and sends her love.

I had quite a surprise this afternoon. One of the sisters brought an RFC lieutenant into our ward and unexpectedly led him over to my bed. I couldn't think why at first — it took me a few moments to recognize him: Shirley! You will already know that he is an officer — most of the pilots are — and I suppose I knew it too, only I did not realize it.

I suppose you will have seen Shirley last Christmas so you might not have been quite so amazed at his appearance as I was. It has been three years since I saw him, and he was just a kid in 1914. Not anymore. He must be at least as tall as Jem and in his RFC uniform and an officer to boot, he was more than a little imposing! I saluted him and he just looked at me as if he were laughing on the inside.

The funny thing is that officers and ORs are not supposed to mingle over here — they aren't even allowed to eat meals together. If Shirley and I were on leave at the same time in London, we couldn't even chat over tea — though I hear things are not so strict in Paris.

In any case, the matron let him visit and we had a pleasant talk. I don't know that I've ever had a proper conversation with Shirley before, but I enjoyed his company tremendously. He told me all his news of home and a bit about the machines he flies. He is doing some training here in England for a few months before going over to France. I'm grateful that he thought to come see me. I never paid him much attention at home and I begin to wonder why. I could say it was because he is younger, but I have enough memories of Rilla from our childhood to know that isn't any explanation at all. Why was he always odd one out?

I am getting along very well. I've worked my way up to two hours in the recreation hall each morning and still have enough energy left in the afternoon to write or read. We sometimes have concerts in the evening and though I haven't gotten to one yet, I mean to try soon. And in any case, I have more than enough energy to defend the Protestant faith from certain unexpected counter-Reformation sallies. I don't know whether I should be seriously alarmed or if you are only donning Romish garb for argument's sake!

Have a wonderful term at Redmond. Did Hazel Marckworth take over as President of the Reds? Faith asked me last time she was here and I didn't know. Do let me know how you are getting on in your studies. You'll be finished with your degree before I am after all. But I do hope I won't be lagging too far behind.

All my love,

Jerry

* * *

Notes:

* _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 26


	33. Exchanges of Trust

**Exchanges of Trust**

* * *

10 October 1917

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Dad,

Nan and I are both getting on well. It is a little lonely around here with just the two of us, but it also makes Aster House a quiet place in a loud world. We could have gotten new roommates easily enough, but we hated to replace Faith and Sylvia (an impossible thing anyway), and it is nice to have a refuge all our own.

Nan is doing much better this term. You will be glad to know that she is attending all her classes and doing her work with more gusto than I have seen in her in a long time. She gets long letters from Jerry and then argues aloud as she responds to them. The Tudors are mixed up in it somehow, but the rest eludes me.

I gather by Nan's energy and the heft of Jerry's letters that he is recovering well enough. I do hope they will send him home soon. Nan doesn't dare say anything aloud, but anyone can see plainly that she is hoping for it. I had a letter from Faith saying that Jerry has settled into the convalescent hospital and has nothing to do now but grow stronger. If the army could only see fit to let him do that at home, they might speed along two recoveries at once.

Things are going quite well at the hospital. Your friend Dr. Wilson is here, filling in for the Chief of Obstetrics, whose son was killed a few weeks ago. You must have told Dr. Wilson that I was here because he sought me out and has been very kind to me. He explains everything he is doing and lets me help him just as if I were a medical student already. I'm afraid he is a bit of a menace when it comes to trays of instruments or anything else that can be knocked over, but he is an excellent obstetrician and I haven't seen him drop a baby yet, so that is something, I suppose.

I hope you are all well in the Glen. The term is flying by here and we'll be home for Christmas before you know it. Give my love (and Nan's) to Mother and Susan and Rilla. And do set aside that article you mentioned in your last — I am trying to read as much as I can in my spare moments so that I will be fully prepared for next fall.

Love,

Di

* * *

5 October 1917

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Shirley,

I am real glad to hear that you have landed safe in England. I am sending a parcel along so that you can have some proper food while you are training. I hope it will reach you soon and that the fudge will not get smashed to paste. If it does, write me and I will send more.*

Rilla has hinted to me that she wrote to you about my marriage proposal. You can be sure there was nothing in it but nonsense and foolishness. If Whiskers-on-the-moon wants a housekeeper to do for him, he will have to find a woman with less backbone than Miranda Pryor and that will take some doing. Even she had the gumption to stand up to him when it was Joe Milgrave on the line. Now she is a war bride and won't take any guff off her old father, believe me. That is good for her and bad for the rest of us as he goes prowling around looking to replace her, but he won't find a volunteer for that outfit in a hurry and that you may tie to.

All is well at home, though I suspect the Canadian boys must be losing some ground at the front because that cat has gone all Mr. Hyde as he always does when the Huns are on the make. The harvest is in. I did my bit and pitched in even though I would not wear overalls like Mary Vance. Well I guess I cannot say anything against her at the moment because Miller Douglas lost a leg at Hill 70 and Mary has been real plucky about it.

We are all pretty well, except that Jims has a rash and Rilla won't hear a thing about poultices, even though poultices brought all of you through many a rash when you were small and a right fine job too. But Morgan doesn't approve and we must never do anything to cross Morgan, whoever he is. I wonder if that man's mother is alive. I would like to ask her how he was brought up and see if he didn't have a poultice or two in his salad days.

Now, be sure to write often and tell us how you are. I read all the news about the flyers, but you never can believe them lies they put in the papers. Be sure to wear your warmest clothes when you go flying because I hear it gets terrible cold in those machines. What anyone was thinking when they thought them up I don't know. And for goodness sake don't bring home an English girl. The way the girls here talk about the airmen is perfectly scandalous and I expect they are no better in England. Just keep to your work and send word that you are alright.

I will send more fudge.

Love,

Susan

* * *

5 October 1917

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Shirley,

We received your letter yesterday. Thank you for writing, darling. It does us all good to know that you are being billeted out in a real house where you can be cared for properly. Please thank the Trumbulls for us. We owe them a great debt for looking after you. I am sending along a gift for them in the parcel — the oilcloth packet is a table runner that I worked before the war. Please give it to Mrs. Trumbull and convey to her my most sincere gratitude.

Dad was very interested to hear the details of your training. He says that the Gosport tube sounds very like a stethoscope and is very impressed that the RFC has found a way for the instructors to speak to you over the sound of the engines. It sounds as though there are quite a lot of clever people working to make the training more effective, for which we are all very grateful.**

I read a bit in your Whitman today and thought of you as I did. Thank you again for entrusting it to me — I could not imagine a better gift and have perused it often this summer. Today, I was reading "Miracles." Do you know it?

 _To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,_  
_Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,_  
_Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,_  
_Every foot of the interior swarms with the same._

It is important to be reminded of all the wonders of the world, and to take none of them for granted.

But tell me, darling, which of Whitman's poems do you love best? If you want any of them with you, I would be happy to copy some out for you, having deprived you of your own copy.

Mrs. Meredith asks me to thank you for going to see Jerry in the hospital. That was very thoughtful of you, and I cannot tell you how pleased Mr. and Mrs. Meredith were to receive your letter. I was over to the manse for tea this week and Bruce sends you his love as well. He had a little airplane made of paper and wood and asked me whether you might send him a real piece of doped linen from an aeroplane wing if such a thing is possible.

Do write again soon and tell us how you are getting along. We love you and miss you and think of you every day.

Love,

Mum

* * *

30 October 1917

RFC Andover, Wiltshire, England

Dear Susan,

Thank you for the parcel. It arrived in good order, with everything just as you sent it.

The fudge was exactly the Susan brand, like no one else can make it. I shared it with Ida Trumbull and you should have seen how round her eyes got at seeing such a treat. Sugar is even dearer here than it is at home.

But please, Susan, you must not send any more fudge. I know that you are saving up your own sugar to make it. But I have good food here and good pay and hate to think that I am taking sugar out of your tea.

Rest easy, Susan. I am in no danger of bringing Ida Trumbull or any other English girl home with me. I should never have mentioned Ida in my first letter. It was only that she gave up her room for me because she thought it would be too hard on her mother to see a soldier sleeping in her brother's old room. But Ida is nine years old and quite excessively fond of ponies (and fudge) and thus very unlikely to become anyone's war bride, and certainly not mine.

Do not worry over me. I am warm and well fed and quite as safe as I ever was at home.

Love,

Shirley

* * *

30 October 1917

RFC Andover, Wiltshire, England

Dear Mother,

Thank you for the parcel. Mrs. Trumbull put your runner on the parlor table, under the photograph of her son. There is no higher honor in this house.

There is no need for you to copy out any Whitman for me. "Miracles" is a good one ("To me the sea is a continual miracle"). But I think he makes the same point better in "I Sing the Body Electric."

I can't parse a poem like you can, nor describe its inner workings. I can only say that when I read Whitman, I know that he is writing for me. You ask me which of his poems I love the best. I really can't say.

But I did a night-flying test this week. Up on my own in the black night, I thought of "When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer," and the student who grows weary of measuring the stars:

 _Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,_  
_In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,  
_ _Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars._

That is about miracles, too, and how we discover for them ourselves rather than hearing of them second-hand.

Give my love to everyone. Tell Dad that the Gosport tube is indeed a great deal like a stethoscope, and that the whole Gosport system of training is wonder, even if it is not precisely a miracle. Either way, it is certain to ensure that we are the best-trained airmen in the world.

Love,

Shirley

P.S. I am sending along the doped linen for Bruce. Tell him that it is from a Sopwith Camel, which is a sort of scout plane I am learning to fly.***

* * *

14 October 1917

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Di,

I am gratified to hear that you are getting along well at the hospital. I won't try to puzzle out the Tudors at a distance, but if Nan is happy, they can do as they please.

I did indeed mention you to Dr. Wilson, but that was when he was still in Toronto and had no notion of coming to Kingsport, so please do not feel that I sent him to check up on you.

All the same, I have had a letter from him and he sings your praises. You are quite right about him — the best obstetrician you will ever meet, but do keep him away from the glassware. Did I never tell you how we met? We were assigned as chemistry lab partners in our first year and I spent the whole term cleaning up his spills and drilling him on the simplest formulas (don't let him at the pharmacy either). In the beginning, I wanted nothing to do with him, but Mum felt a great deal of sympathy for poor Edgar and his unending scrapes and encouraged me to give him a second (and a twelfth) chance. She was quite right in the end.

It comes as no surprise to me that you are doing so well at the hospital. If you continue on at this rate, I think that you will find that all your clinical tutorials are nothing but revision when you start at the medical school. I had to laugh at your idea of "fully prepared" — I'm sure it is not an exaggeration to say that you already have more practical experience than I did when received my MD. There is still plenty to learn of course, and that never changes — a doctor must be a perpetual student. But you are more than adequately prepared to begin.

If I might venture to give you any advice, it would be that the most important thing in any practice is _trust_. Most people hold doctors in awe, but trust is another thing entirely. Any sawbones can sew up a bleeding wound, but a good doctor must build a relationship of mutual respect through exchanges of trust. You must show patients that you will listen to them and believe them and value them. Otherwise, you might ask questions until you are cyanotic, but they will never entrust you with the real answers.

We have had a letter from Jem this week, dated the 20th, and Mr. Meredith says they have had one from Carl as well, so they were safe the last we heard. Shirley is still in England, though he expects to go over to France by the end of the year.

Keep up all your good work, sweetheart. Say hello to Dr. Wilson for me. Don't let him give you any whisky and for goodness' sake do look out for the babies, especially when they are slippery.

Love,

Dad

* * *

Notes:

*"One can exercise a little gumption on the quiet now and then. Shirley was wishing for some of my fudge the other day — the Susan brand, as he called it — and I said 'The first victory there is to celebrate I shall make you some.' I consider this news quite equal to a victory, and what the doctor does not know will never grieve him." Susan to Anne,  _RoI_ , Chapter 25: Shirley Goes

**Early in the war, training for the Royal Flying Corps was woefully inadequate. Pilots were going into battle with just a few hours of flight time and only imprecise knowledge of how airplanes worked. In 1917, Major Robert Smith-Barry established a new flight school in Gosport that developed better training techniques (for example, letting students get into dangerous situations in flight and teaching them how to get out of them again). The amount of time spent in training increased; casualties from preventable accidents decreased. The "Gosport tube" was indeed something like a stethoscope: the instructor (in the back seat of the plane) spoke into a mouthpiece directly into the student's ear, rather than trying to communicate over the sound of the engine and the wind by thumping and screaming.

***"Scout" planes were originally supposed to keep an eye out for the enemy so that reconnaissance planes could do their work unmolested. By late 1917, "scout" planes had become known as "fighters" instead. Shirley spares Anne a bit by using the older name. The Sopwith Camel was the workhorse single-seat fighter of the RFC/RAF in 1917/1918.


	34. More Than Distance In Between

**More Than Distance In Between**

* * *

9 November 1917

Vlamertinghe, Belgium

Dear Faith,

I am safe and unhurt. Really unhurt (no shrapnel or anything). We have been pulled back from the front lines near Passchendaele and this is the first chance I've had to write you. We are getting re-organized and re-fitted, right down to our underclothes (which were quite rotting off of us).

I'm sorry to tell you that Douglas McLeod was killed a few days ago. I have some of his letters. I suppose I should send them back to Hazel. They're all hers. Lately, there were bits McLeod wouldn't share with us. How can I send them back to her? They never even met.

Emile was wounded as well. I expect he will lose the leg, though I haven't been able to get any recent information about his condition. We were caught way out of position and it was a while before the stretcher-bearers came for him, but I was able to tie a tourniquet on him and gave him the last vial of Dr. Parkman's morphine. He was alive when I saw him last.

Emile was the last of the fellows I had been with since Valcartier, except for Sgt. Barlow. Fraser and Ellis and McLeod all killed in action, and the rest ill or wounded bad enough to be sent home. But I think Emile has a chance. It's possible you may hear from him (he had your address, in case he ever needed to write to you). If you hear from him at all, write straight away and tell me where he is and how he fares. I told Emile I'd see him back in Kingsport and I mean to hold up my end of the bargain if he does. I'll write to Marie and tell her what I know, which is little enough.

Sometimes it is hard to realize that Kingsport still exists. Same for the Glen. All those peaceful, safe places where we were so happy once. It is very strange to think that if you got in a little boat on the coast here and pointed it generally westward and just kept going, you would find them eventually. It seems that you shouldn't be able to. As if there must be some sort of unfathomable gate you must pass to get from here to there - that there is more than distance in between.

Somewhere, in some nearby universe, you and I would have been married a year and a half ago. We'd be home together right now, this very minute. I'd be complaining about not getting enough sleep between patients, and I can't even write what you'd be complaining about because I can't even stand to think it.

I'm sorry, Faith. It doesn't do any good to imagine  _what if_. I've been thinking, though — it's nearly winter now and the battalion usually lets more of us go on leave in the cold months. I haven't had any leave since Jerry and I went up to London last fall, so I'm nearly due. Not that that counts for much around here, but I can ask. If I could come up to London for a few days, could you get some leave as well? If I could just see you, even for a few hours, I think maybe things would be alright.

Have you heard from Jerry? He usually writes every week, but it has been two since I had a letter from him. Have you seen him? How is he?

Write me soon, Faith. It's awfully hard out here with McLeod and Emile gone and Jerry off in Blighty (though of course I am glad he is safe). Sometimes I think I should get to know the replacement ORs we're getting now, and sometimes I think I can't even bear to learn their names.

Love,

Jem

XXX

* * *

13 November 1917

St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London

Chin up, laddie. We'll get home yet. Together. I look forward to many and many a sleepless night, what with one thing and another.

Of course you must come to London if you possibly can. I've used most of my leave to go see Jerry (he is well), but I will finish my first half-year with the V.A.D at the end of the month and am entitled to 14 days of leave in my second.

Though that hardly matters. You must know that I'd break my contract in a heartbeat for a minute with you. Come over soon, Jem, and we'll see what we can get up to with a few days all our own.

Love always,

Faith

P.S. Though we will have to think of some way to circumvent regulations. I'm certainly not allowed to fraternize with soldiers off-duty!

* * *

11 November 1917

King's Canadian Red Cross Hospital, Bushy Park, England

Dear Nan,

Your point about the Regicides is a good one. Indeed, I was quite taken by your argument that the term "Revolution" should apply more specifically to the trial of Charles I than to the wars of the 1640s and 1650s in general.

But leave that alone for the moment. I must devote this letter to a more pressing matter.

I am very pleased to report that I am feeling quite well these days. I am getting stronger and spend the whole day up and about in the recreation hall or taking walks in the park. The doctors here say that my recovery has been remarkable, and make rather a lot of my case to one another. I write letters for men who can only dictate, go to concerts in the evenings, and generally behave like the nearly-able-bodied man I am.

While you may be glad to hear that I am recovering so well, I suspect you may not be so delighted with the rest of this letter. I will not dance around the main point: I have been assigned to new duties here in England and will not be returning home in the immediate future.

Please let me explain. I've agreed to sign on as a clerk on base here in England and will start my new assignment as soon as I am able. In a few weeks, probably. The job involves rather more books than bullets, and I'll be as safe as anyone in uniform and much safer than most.

I know I can not persuade you with rational argument on this point, so I will not try. All I can say in my defense is that it was laid on my to do this. You'll have read about Passchendaele and all our unfathomable losses there. Our men are still out there in the field, freezing and suffering and dying. Jem's still there. And Carl. And the rest of my section, what's left of them, and soon Shirley will go as well. I can't just go home, not when I might be of even the smallest use to them.

I talked to one of the doctors here and he said that my case was borderline. Certainly, my wound was serious enough that I could go home and no questions asked. On the other hand, as I have said, I am doing very well now and he said he would not scruple to recommend me for duty in England if that is what I wanted. He left it up to me.

I took a day to think it over and made lists of reasons for staying and reasons against — "against" was by far the longer, I assure you. But all the while, I kept hearing verses from Romans 12 in my mind like a song that plays over and over and refuses to be ignored. You'll know them, beginning with  _present your bodies a living sacrifice_ and going on through the exhortation for every man to put his particular gifts to good use. I couldn't shake them, no matter how I tried. And I knew that if I ignored such a summons, I would regret it for the rest of my life.

It's important work, Nan, and very safe. I may not be very much use in a trench at the moment, but I can type well enough and free a stronger man for front-line duty. I know you want me home and goodness knows I want nothing more than to be home. But when I think about boarding a ship and heading back to safety, leaving Jem and Carl and the rest out here still fighting, I can't stand it. I must do as much as I can for as long as I am needed or I won't be able to live with myself.

I'm truly sorry, Nan. I'll understand if you can't forgive me.

I do hope you will, though. I am sending along my new address. The assignment comes with a promotion to Sergeant. I say this not because I imagine it will reconcile you to any degree, but only so that you may address my letters accurately, if you decide to write any more.

Please forgive me,

Jerry

* * *

30 November 1917

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Faith,

Oh, what a time we are having at Aster House this week! I'm sure you must know that Jerry has volunteered to return to duty, since you see him from time to time. Well, now Nan knows it too.

I almost find myself wishing that she would rage and carry on as she normally does when something has upset her. Instead, she seems to be made of marble, all cold and still and pale, except for her eyes, which are perfectly scorching. I never saw anyone so angry in my life. I almost think Jerry would be safer in a trench than in Kingsport at the moment.

How is it possible that Jerry is well enough to return to active duty? From your description, it sounded as if his wound was quite serious. I have a patient right now who isn't nearly as bad off — no liver involvement at all — and he's just stopping here in Kingsport to get stronger before they send him home. I never would have thought they'd let Jerry go back after such an injury.

But that isn't the trouble anyway. Of course, if he had been ordered back, there would be nothing to be done about it. But it sounded from his letter as if he had a choice in the matter and that is what has sent Nan into her silent fury. He has served so long, and could come home honorably. Why would he choose to stay? I don't understand it myself.

I have tried to comfort Nan as best I can. But get too close and she hisses — you think I am painting it on in slathers, but her whole body is so tense she fairly sizzles — and I can't get near without her fizzing up. I can practically see her tail, all puffed up and lashing back and forth. I would put down a saucer of cream for her, but she is in no mood for a joke.

I am getting along pretty well at the hospital. So many of the professional nurses have gone overseas now that we Reds end up doing a fair bit more than we were trained for last year. Hazel has not been back to the hospital since she got word of Douglas. Please thank Jem for sending those papers to her. She did not receive a telegram — how could she, when they were not family? not officially, anyway — only her own letters returned, marked  _killed in action_. It was a rather horrible way to get that news. I think Jem's letter may have comforted her a bit, but she is still taking it very hard.

I hear from Sylvia pretty often. She says you are a force to be reckoned with and put all the other V.A.D.s to shame. Don't go working so hard the other girls look shabby by comparison. I do wish I were there with you both, rather than here in sleepy Kingsport, but I suppose there is work to be done here, too, and someone must stay out of the front lines to do it.

Take care, dearest. Give my love to Jerry. And Nan's, too. I haven't seen her write a thing since she got his letter, but she will. She is only angry because she is worried sick. I don't know whether that will cheer him, but tell him I am taking good care of her and know that she will come around in time.

Love,

Di


	35. One Hour to Madness and Joy

**One Hour to Madness and Joy**

* * *

10 November 1917

Calais, France

Dear Carl,

I have arrived in France. I'm not exactly sure where my squadron will be stationed yet, but I guess I won't be too far from where you are.

If you are able to get any leave, write me. It's easier for me to get leave than it is for you. I know that officers and ORs aren't allowed to socialize in London, but I hear things are not quite so strict in Paris. It would be just like old times at Queen's.

Yours truly,

Shirley

* * *

17 November 1917

Watou, Belgium

Dear Shirley,

Yes, I can get some leave — five days, beginning the 27th. Can you get a few days then? Write back right away.

Yours truly,

Carl

* * *

20 November 1917

Amiens, France

Dear Carl,

Yes, I can get leave then.

Meet me in Paris. I don't know my way around, but I guess we can both find the Eiffel Tower. Meet me there at noon on the 28th. If I do not see you then, I will come back at noon on the 29th. And if I do not see you then, you may expect an aeroplane to have engine trouble in the general vicinity of the good old 87th and drop in on you unannounced.

Yours truly,

Shirley

* * *

24 November 1917

La Thieuloye, France

Dear Shirley,

I will be at the Eiffel Tower at noon on the 28th.

If am not, you can be sure it was because my leave was cancelled at short notice. But I do not think that will happen — my battalion is resting and reorganizing after - well, I'd rather not spoil any of this by thinking about any of that.*

But I'll be there.

Yours truly,

Carl

* * *

5 December 1917

Near Ypres, Belgium

Dear Faith,

You will have to adjust my address because I have been promoted. Not just any promotion, either — a field commission! In future, please direct all endearments to Lieutenant James Matthew Blythe, B.A.

The official reason for my promotion is "gallantry on the field of battle." And while I suppose I've been as brave as I've had to be, I don't think I've been any braver than anybody else here. Of course, it makes a good story to write home. Rilla will love it.

The honest truth is that we lost a fair few officers at Passchendaele. I've been here a long time and managed to stay alive, so I guess that's its own sort of qualification. Sgt. Barlow has been commanding the platoon these past few weeks and I've been in charge of the section, even though I'm only a corporal ( _was_  a corporal — officer now, you know). But we can't very well carry on with no officers and only a couple of corporals for NCOs forever. I guess Sgt. Barlow must have recommended me. They wanted to commission him, too, but he wouldn't have it on a silver platter. He's been reassigned to battalion headquarters to oversee our training, and I'm glad to see him getting a bit of rest. I'm sorry to see him leave, though (I threw a handful of mud at him for a parting embrace and he just shook his head at me).

I suppose I'm glad to be an officer. It's certainly an honor. But there's quite a lot of responsibility to it, too. There are 28 men my platoon and I have to make sure they're fed and clothed and disciplined and not doing anything suicidal like smoking in the dark and getting picked off by snipers. I haven't had to order them over the top yet, but I will. I just hope I am really able to do it.

I wonder if this is how parents feel — I want to protect them, but I know I can't and so I just have to take care of them the best I can for as long as I can. So far, I have only led them in work parties (clearing rubbish and shoring up dugouts). I also have to give training lectures. We are getting a lot of new replacements, so I try to focus on health and hygiene in the trenches. If I can't protect them from bullets, I can at least protect them from trench foot.

One of my new duties is censoring mail, and that is one I could do without. I always thought I knew the men in my old platoon pretty well, but I never wanted to know them as well as I know these men, having read every word they write to their mothers and wives. Some of the letters are quite as screamingly funny as Bruce's used to be, and no better with respect to either grammar or spelling. But most are just heartbreaking. I don't know how I can ever order men to face a field of machine gun fire knowing their pet names for their sweethearts and the impossible promises they make to their parents. I never thought about it before, but I guess Lt. Meade knew me pretty well once upon a time, and probably Sgt. Barlow, too. I never realized.**

I don't know who censors my letters. Probably someone over at battalion headquarters. Hello, whoever you are. Do see if you can't get Colonel Watson to send over some extra rations for the boys. It's awfully wet and cold, and even a shoestring soup would help, as long as it is hot. I've put in a dozen requests and heard nothing.

Now, I do hope that you have read this far, Faith, because I've saved the best for last. The army has let me stay on as an officer here because it has been something of an emergency. But they generally send field-commissioned officers back over to England for training. It wasn't possible for me right away, but now we are starting to get some replacement officers and the situation isn't quite so dire anymore. So they are sending me to officer's training school. In England. I'll be in Bexhill-on-Sea for four months (! ! !). I leave tomorrow and may have already landed before you even receive this letter.***

How do you like that for a Christmas gift? I do hope you'll be able to find a spare moment or two to run down and see me, or else let me come up to see you. I can think of at least one way to dodge those pesky regulations on socializing.

I love you enough to make the most callous censor blush if only I could put it in words.

Love,

Jem

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

* * *

3 December 1917

Amiens, France

Dear Carl,

Lots of cold weather here. The machines don't like it much and have been temperamental. I do a fair amount of reconnaissance flying, but haven't yet encountered an enemy squadron in the air.

Only a matter of time, though. In the meantime, I find that I have learned to love flying.  _To speed where there is space enough and air enough at last_. You'll recall the lines, I think.

Very few of the pilots here have scored more than one or two aerial victories. If you can shoot down five German machines, they call you an ace. I don't know that I am looking forward to the day I have to test myself against some Hun pilot, but I am confident in my training and glad to be able to do my bit.

Even so, I was very sorry to leave Paris. It was everything I hoped it would be. "One Hour to Madness . . ." and all that.

Shirley

* * *

6 December 1917

Diéval, France

Dear Shirley,

Let me assure you that I found Paris perfectly enchanting. It is a breathtaking city and I hope to return there as often as I can. I wonder what the folks at home would think of it.

Only, don't go taking any unnecessary risks in your aeroplane. I've seen some aerial combat from the ground and I must say that while there are certainly some things that are quite impressive about the RFC, they do not wholly make up for the rest.

Very like you, though, to take those sort of risks so calmly. It's only us down here watching that are nervous, I'm sure.

Even so, it does give me quite a thrill to imagine you up there. Do try to make sure you always come safely down again. Save the  _dashing reckless and dangerous_  for another time, if you will.

Carl

* * *

Notes:

*After months of heavy fighting near Ypres (again), the Canadian Corps captured Passchendaele in a furious battle from October 30-November 10, 1917. But that wasn't the end for Carl's 87th Battalion. Beginning November 12, they spent four horrific days on the front lines at Passchendaele, exposed to shelling from three sides and enduring many gas attacks and strafing runs from airplanes. They weren't even attacking — they were just trying to hold the line, and they still took 30% casualties in just four days. The War Diary of the 87th summarizes:

"The description of the tour contained in this Diary probably does not do justice to the work done by the [87th] Battalion during same. The Battalion throughout the tour was subjected to the heaviest concentration of shelling during the whole of its experience. The conditions under which the Battalion held the line were of the worst, as practically the whole of the garrison were in shell holes, which in many cases were half-full of water. The total casualties for the tour were 4 officers and 172 O.R. [out of a strength of 31 officers and 581 O.R.], which is exceedingly heavy for four days in holding the line, and shows the intenseness of the situation in the vicinity of PASSCHENDAELE. The line on the north of the Canadian area sagged back in a westerly direction and similarly on the south, the result being that our Battalion was on the tip of a very pronounced salient, and shelling came from three sides. It is difficult for the writer of this Diary to express the admiration he feels for the heroic way in which the Officers, N.C.O's and men endured their difficulties." (War Diary of the 87th Canadian Infantry Battalion, November 16, 1917)

**Junior officers were forever complaining about censoring mail, not only because it was tedious, but because it was a complicated thing, getting to know their men so intimately.

***Jem's overseas training in England is not mentioned in  _Rilla of Ingleside_ , but it almost certainly happened. Thanks very much to OriginalMcFishie for sharing family stories about her great uncle, 2nd Lt. Vere Cummings Stevenson, who was awarded the Military Medal for gallantry at Passchendaele, received a field commission there, and was sent back to England for training. He was killed in July 1918.

In terms of canon, I am making rather a lot out of Rilla's brief statement on New Year's Eve, 1917 that Faith "saw Jem on his last leave" (RoI, chapter 27).


	36. Interlude: Per Ardua Ad Astra

Interlude:

_**Per Ardua Ad Astra** _

Paris

28 November 1917

(Shirley)

* * *

When the door closes behind him, I lock it three times: lock and deadbolt and a chair thrust firmly under the knob just for good measure. He draws ancient, musty drapes against the afternoon sun and then it is just the two of us, staring at one another across a dim and shabby room, frozen in the simple truth that it has been two years and more than time besides.

We talked in the street and at the Eiffel Tower, where I saw him first and watched him for long minutes while he looked past me without recognition. In the end, I had to approach him and call him by name. My voice was a live wire, startling the blue eyes wide, and he watched me warily as we walked. We talked of mundane things — was your train on time and did you find your way through the city alright and many other nothings as our silent feet carried us here.

Now we have our triple lock and could say anything, if only we would.

He does not remember me. Foolish, to think a few sparse letters, a handful of sly jokes, would be enough to remind him. He has forgotten me; he looks me up and down as if I were a stranger. Did I really expect anything else?

I would turn away. But he has removed his cap and a lawless beam of unblocked sun sparks gold off his hair and I cannot turn away. Does he look different? Perhaps. There are lines that were not always there, and his face seems baked, not sun-kissed or freckled as it always was in our fishing summers. But I would know him anywhere, just by his gait and the chickadee tilt of his head.

He could not say the same. He didn't know me on sight. Now, he peers at me with eyes like a deep channel in the gulf, chilly and sharp. I would turn away.

But he steps toward me and, reaching, takes my own cap, tosses it aside. He presses a pale hand to the wings sewn over my heart. It must be audible to him as it is to me.

My RFC tunic is stylishly smooth, not like the plain, pockety, infantry khaki. He catches his lower lip between his teeth as he works the buckle and I would help him, if only I could move. He finds the concealed buttons and traces their path from shoulder to hip, working them one at a time until he can push the tunic off my shoulders.

It falls away like the creases in his forehead. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. It spreads, unfurling across his features until he has no need of external sunlight.

"There you are."

He kisses me atiptoe, a kiss anchored in heavy boots, vibrating up through khaki puttees and waist and collar, flowing through pliant lips and fingertips skimming over my cheeks.

I melt; I surge. Something gigantic is blossoming in my chest like a genie unentombed. Very well: First, that he would be safe. Second and third, that I might know him again and be known in return.

I move to pull him toward me, but he is right about the uniform. I work the buttons of his jacket and it too falls away, a dull husk consigned to the oblivion of the floor. Better. Dropping to one knee, I unwrap and unlace until his feet slip free, unmoored. I rise and he effervesces into my arms, bubbling delight.

One kiss and another. Glowing lips parted under mine, retreating from me as irrepressible smiles.

I am not content with kisses, and go roaming.

Under his jaw, a tiny line, dark and straight, shows where he nicked himself shaving. I wonder where he slept last night, where he woke this morning. Somewhere, he bathed, the mud of Flanders sloughing off, carrying all its filth down a drain.

How, after all this, can he still smell like himself? The superficial scents are changed — harsh army soap and worn serge and the acrid sting of delousing powder. But underneath, something I had always assumed was the smell of ponds and reeds and red Island roads. Perhaps it was only him all along.

Impulsive, I rasp the cut with my tongue and it bleeds afresh. I lick it clean. I never did tell anyone about his close shave. His fingers twine in my hair and an inaudible moan resonates through the lips I press to his throat.

I would draw him out. Gray flannel and placket and sleeves, all the government-issue impedimenta fall away, flimsy, and I wish there were a drain for those, too. I would stay, raising patches of pink along his collarbone, but the undershirt must, must come off, off now, and the only way is to pull back and peel it away over his waking skin.

I am lost at once. Whatever idea I had of tasting the hollow of his throat, of burying my face under his arms and breathing there until the very air in my lungs was only what had passed over him first, all immediately forgotten at the sight of blue eyes gone dark, lips fallen open over a soft and darker mouth.

Perhaps I kiss him too forcefully, or perhaps the taste of blood is my own, surging from every extremity, drawing me together with a lurch like a missed stair. He wraps bare arms around my neck, elbow-deep, and will not let me go.

I hesitate a moment over more buttons, but he only smiles against my lips and the encumbrance dissolves under my fingers. If my hands are busy, his are as well, and soon there is nothing between us, not even silence, as we fall laughing onto the bed, intertwined.

Is it funny? Of course it is, this knotty puzzle of enmeshed limbs and the absurd freedom behind our thrice-locked door. We are waves, rolling over and through one another, mingling and lost where we meet, indistinguishable.

He sinks into the pillows and I move to resume my expedition, surveyor of the only body I know better than my own. He delays me only a moment with one last ripe-mouthed kiss, not farewell, but safe journey.

What should I say of my excursion? That I recalled the way? That the terrain of heaving chest and tender belly rose up to meet me? That soft and softer skin remembered my husbandry?

There are medical words in  _Leidy's Anatomy_. There are coarse words in the mouths of soldiers, and bleak words in the law. There are even lovely words among the poet's leaves. I would not fill my mouth with words.

Trembling (both). Leaping (both). Gasping (both). It's only friction, isn't it? (It isn't.)

If there is still a world, I have forgotten it. Even the blue eyes, closed now, and the panting, parted lips are distant. All creation is a mere hand's-breadth wide, and that hand mine. Writing is useless and speaking is vain; I've never been able to put things into words. This is better. Slick and salted, with pen-less fingers and wordless tongue, I fill every silence.

The word I do not say is  _syncope_ : a change in rhythm, a lapse, a brief loss of consciousness. How to describe that moment, when it is not yet begun, and yet inevitable? I would not try. I would only delight in it, that sublime, sapid syncope that I have both given and taken for myself. It is mine and his and both of ours together.

Faintly, I hear his valediction: "I'm going."

I will follow in my own time. For now, I would bid him  _adieu_ , sending him off with a wave, and a wave, and a cresting wave.

* * *

That night, or perhaps the next day or the next night, we lie amid rumpled bedclothes, measuring our hands one against the other. He slides his palm across mine and grins when I catch him by the wrist and kiss the ball of his thumb.

Earlier, his callouses rough against my singing flesh, I wondered how he came by them, but let the worldly thought drift away. Now, it has been a day and a night or perhaps two days and two nights, and I would know him other ways.

"Your hands are rougher than mine."

Apple-cheeked and toothy, he plants a kiss on my temple. "They always have been."

I brush this aside, derisive, but he persists: "Your hands have always been wonderfully soft."

"Have not!"

"Have too! The very first time we went fishing, I went up to Ingleside to collect you, and you were in the kitchen, helping Susan make porridge. Your hands were dusted with oatmeal and when I took one, I remember thinking that you had hands like butterfly wings."

A plosive breath escapes, but I cannot contradict him.

"Alright. Maybe my hands were soft when I was  _nine_  . . ."

He is chuckling, shaking his head.

"Just as soft the summer before Queens."

Fingers dance along the sides of my face and he returns to me the very same kiss I gave him that sultry day when we tested the depths of the stream. Unmistakable.

I ask because I never have before: "What made you kiss me that first day?"

Leaning back against the headboard, he laces fingers behind the tousled nimbus of his hair and beams.

"Madness. What made you kiss me back?"

There is only one answer to that.

"Joy."

He grins and dives at me, bearing me down into the depths of the mattress, bedclothes splashing away from us as we grapple. We are a long time reenacting that scene, embellishing it with fanciful alternate endings.

We surface, suspiring, and I open my eyes to see something merry spark in the blue depths.

"I have something for you," he breathes.

With a peck, he wriggles away and off the bed. I follow to the edge, perching watchful as I savor the sight of moon-bright skin. I have read of act-poems; he is an anthology. He stretches, the flex of shoulders and crux of elbows enjambed, flowing one into another as he searches through forgotten clothing strewn across the floor. What could I possibly want that would fit in a pocket?

Whatever it is, he has found it.

He comes to stand between my knees, nudging them apart as he closes what little distance separated us. There is a determined set to his jaw. Unashamed, he twists the top off a little circular tin and my last coherent thought is  _he has thought this through._

Were his hands rough? They are slick now. Slipping, grasping, encircling, and I do not remember when I last took a breath. I try to summon enough air to ask,  _are you sure_ , but can't form the thought, let alone the words.

There is no need. His hands may be occupied, but it's his gaze that holds me fast:  _clear, bright, dark blue eyes fearless and direct_.* A puckish sparkle kindles there in response to the feeble, gargling sound that I meant as speech.

He answers me wordlessly with tongue-tied kisses. Our happiness is in each other's keeping, and we are unafraid.**

Toppling, we are a tangle of knees and creases and knobbly spines. He guides me through perplexities, slow and then slower. I match his breathing, slow and slower still, his hand strong in mine.

Yielding (both). Aching (both). Cleaving (both). Is that Whitman or the Bible? (It's both.)

Words are such contrary things. How can  _cleave_  mean  _to split_ when it also means  _to adhere_? If that seemed a mystery once, it isn't any longer.

I will think on that in afterdays. Nothing so rational now. What began as uncertain ripples in a lagoon and swelled to rhythmic waves on welcoming sands now erupts into storm-roiled cliff-breakers. Crashing, plunging,  _dashing reckless and dangerous_  where sensible people dare not sail.  _I would be lost if it must be so_.

Some would have me spend my life in quiet conformity. Some would have me spend my life for Canada, or else for England or for France. I would spend it here.

Spent, I am an edgeless puddle, bleeding into the world around me. He gathers me back together, pulls me to his own heaving shoulder, cradles me there. Ear pressed to his chest, I can hear the sea rushing in his pulse or mine or both.

We lay just like this the day before he left, in our rose-papered room at Mrs. MacDougal's. He had arrived that evening in his crisp new khaki, and I swelled with pride and longing and envy to see him so. Pleasantries to Mrs. MacDougal, then we had escaped upstairs to stow his negligible baggage. A step over the threshold and I pushed him up against the door, scrabbling with unfamiliar garments and their fastenings. He laughed, called me something unrepeatable that brought me up short, not because of my tender sensibilities, but because I had never heard the like from him before.

"I'm a soldier now," he winked. "We get to say all manner of filthy things."

How we ever made it back downstairs for supper is a mystery.

Later, in the dark of the new moon, he held me just like this, running his fingers through my hair as we lay together under Mrs. Rachel Lynde's tobacco stripe quilt. He's to have that, of course, when I die. It is tucked up with camphor in the cedar chest by my bed at home. I considered leaving a note with it, but Susan might air it out and that would never do. I've left a sealed letter for Una instead, among the papers in my foot locker. She'll see it through.

"Penny for your thoughts," he whispers.

"I was thinking about Mrs. MacDougal."

He laughs like a burbling brook. "I'm not sure which of us should be more flattered."

Feeling that my bones might be solid enough to support me again, I prop myself up beside him on the pillows. "Are you alright?"

"Quite alright."

"You're sure?"

He smirks and I search his face for hesitation or dissembling.

"You're a lot stronger than I remember," he says.

Heat prickles into my cheeks and I grope for an apology, but only manage a faint, "Sorry."

"I'm hardly complaining."

I swallow around the stone growing in my throat, but he sees my difficulty and punches me playfully in the shoulder. "You should see your face."

"I didn't mean to . . ."

Pale fingertips press my lips, silencing me.

"I am perfectly alright. Better than."

"You're sure?"

"Very."

With that, he kisses the tip of my nose and burrows into my neck, nuzzling under my ear, pressing himself to me all along the length of our bodies. He winds an arm across my breast and I pull him close in turn, the old familiar embrace.

My pulse is diminishing; his as well. Soon, the breaths rippling across my throat are shallow and even. I risk a tiny shift in position, the better to see his face. He is smiling.

* * *

In the morning, he is gone.

* * *

Beyond the drapes, there is a little balcony. I sit with my knees tucked up against my chest and smoke a third cigarette, not seeing the city.

He could be anywhere. Should I go searching? One khaki needle in a teeming khaki haystack. He may even have left Paris, run back to the war early to get away from me.  _Shit_.

* * *

 

The last time I cried, I was eleven. It was August and we were fishing the Glen Pond, as we did every summer. As we sweltered together on the landing, sharing a haversack of early apples, the mood turned confessional in a way it hadn't before, and we poured out the sort of secrets that you can't tell just anyone. He admitted that he missed his mother, that he could barely remember her, that Rosemary was lovely and kind and good, but that didn't stop him longing for the woman who had eyes like his. I confessed that I worried about having two mothers, that perhaps there was something wrong with me, deep down, because Susan meant as much to me as Mother ever had.

Neither of us noticed the viper in the form of Andy Reese hiding in the rushes, not until it was too late. I can still see that pug nose, popping out to burst our lovely bubble, and hear the mocking tone, though I don't recall the words.

What I do recall is the clear, cutting voice beside me that sent the sneak slinking away to lick wounds deeper than any I could have delivered with my fists. And when we were alone again, he took another apple and winked at me.

I didn't have words for that emotion: part gratitude, part adoration, part what I didn't yet recognize as desire. I didn't know what it was, but I knew that it was enormous.

I ran away home and curled up in the window seat behind Susan's rocking chair until she came in from the garden and soothed me without knowing what was wrong. How could I tell her when I didn't know myself? She promised me undying love and showered me with jam tarts that did not fill the new hole in my heart.

* * *

 

The turning of a key in the lock cracks like a rifle. I swivel to see him step through the door softly, as if he would not wake me. A paper sack crackles, cradled in one arm, bulging, baguettes tilting crazily out the top. He glances toward the bed, the secret, lip-bitten smile of the prankster curving his lips.

I am on my feet, blinking hard.

"Oh! You're awake."

I only stare, heart hammering, mouth gone slack.

He holds up the groceries, smiling an apology. "I thought you must be starving."

I suppose that's one word for it.

I croak, smoke-parched. "I thought you left."

"Sorry. I only meant to let you sleep."

Perhaps something of the past hour's vigil remains etched in my face, because the soft smile is gone and he is looking at me with mounting concern. I cannot last long under this tender scrutiny. He sees that, too, and takes a towel from the washstand.

"Why don't you go take a shower?" he says, handing it to me. "Then come back and have something to eat."

I nod, unable to trust my voice.

Down the hall, there is a little washroom, blessedly unoccupied at the moment. I stand under the showerhead in the curtained tub, but it its too short, so I have to sit in the basin to cry.

I feel eleven years old again, having no name for whatever emotion is washing down the drain. Some part of it is relief, some part elation, some part an ineffable sorrow. Whatever it is, it is much too big, and I am grateful to let the excess overflow and swirl away with the water.

Calmer, I stand before the mirror. Judging by my stubble, this must be the third day. I scrape my cheeks and chin, drawing the razor carefully up my throat. It is something of a surprise to see a tiny flash of red carving a bright path through the shaving soap. Less of a surprise to see that the cut is just where his was that first evening. I didn't do it on purpose, but some things have their own purpose.

If this is the third day, we will both need to leave early tomorrow morning. Trains are unreliable and the war is calling. We'll still have letters, of course, but you can hardly say anything in those, not with the censors and other people always wanting to hear the news. Luckily, Rilla generally sends me some chatter that I can use to divert any letter-curious comrades. Not that there are many, and none of them last very long.

My squadron has only been in France a few weeks, but my bunkmates have been dying ever since we started training. One crashed the very first week we flew solo; two more before we left Canada. The aerodromes in England have their own cemeteries.

Now we're finally here, and the question isn't how many aerial victories you can win; it's how many you can win in a row, beginning with your very first. There isn't much room for trial and error. If your unbeaten streak stretches to five, they call you an ace. If you last six months, they call you Gramps. Every day is the last one out there.

I pull on trousers and undershirt, check the cut under my chin, clotting now. The face in the mirror seems composed.

Well, if this is the last day here, I would make it count.

Back down the hall, I knock softly, am admitted softly. He has taken a blanket from the bed and spread it on the floor, set it with split loaves spread with cheese, a clutch of pears, a bottle of wine.

"I've never had wine before," he shrugs, inspecting the bottle. "I had beer in England, and we have rum rations in the trenches, but that's practically medicinal. But when in Paris . . ."

I fold myself to the floor, our knees brushing with a  _subtle electric fire_. He struggles with the cork, chipping off pieces until I take it from his hand and pop it with a corkscrew knife I won at poker from one of my dead bunkmates. I offer back the open bottle, can't help laughing at the red crescent he licks from his upper lip.

The food is miraculous. It is reassuring to realize that some of that was just ordinary hunger after all.

When we have stuffed ourselves, I lean back against the bed, memorizing him. I hardly know where to begin.

"You didn't recognize me," I say. "At the Eiffel Tower."

He brushes crumbs from the gray flannel of his shirt, wrinkles his nose. "Of course I didn't. I was looking for the kid I left back home. I wasn't expecting . . . you know . . . the shoulders and all."

My mouth is dry despite the wine, my voice quiet. "I thought that you had forgotten me."

He looks up, brows quirked, lips twitching with what might be mirth. "You thought I  _forgot_  you?"

I shift my weight, squirming under his incredulity. Does he have to keep staring at me like that?

He has risen to his knees, pushing the remnants of our feast aside. Face intent, he takes both of my hands in his. Is the posture familiar? There was a spring last time, murmuring under the maples.

He waits until I meet his eyes of my own accord, then speaks reverently:

"I, Thomas Carlyle Meredith, do solemnly swear that I will never, ever forget you, Shirley John Blythe, not ever, not for one single minute, until the day I die."

The words fall from his lips and run skittering up my arms, raising every hair in a shiver that is perilously close to ecstasy.

I should repeat the oath, should swap the names, complete the ritual. But there is no set form for us, no rite but the one we write for ourselves. I could quote someone else's words, give him a line of Whitman or his own words back. But I want to give him my own, poor as they always are.

"I love you, Carl."

It is sufficient. He obviates any further covenanting with a joyful kiss, and another, and enough that counting is a fool's errand. We, who have been rivers and streams and waves together so often, are become wine, dark and rich and sweet on one another's tongues.

He is tugging at my undershirt, and I would happily oblige him, but not just yet. I put his hands away from me, just for the moment.

"I have something for you."

"I'll bet."

"No," I laugh. "An actual present."

"Oh?" he brightens. "Let's see it then."

I find my tunic crumpled in a corner and dig around in one of the hip pockets for the little pin clasped to the lining. Tiny wings rendered in gold, emblazoned  _RFC_ , with the corps motto on a blue enamel ribbon:  _Per Ardua Ad Astra_. Through Adversity to the Stars.

I sit down across from him, my palm gone damp, clutching the token too tightly. It's not a gift usually given from one soldier to another, this sweetheart brooch. Women display them with pride when they have a beau or a husband or a son in the flying corps. What would he ever do with it? Suddenly, it seems an absurd gift and I wish I had never spoken.

He cocks his head like a bright-eyed bird, waiting, but my mouth has gone to cotton.

"It's . . . it's stupid," I say.

"I doubt that very much."

"It's only . . . well . . . I don't mean to . . . to insult you . . . to imply . . ."

He is waving his hands vigorously, chuckling. "Hold on. Back up. From the beginning, if you please."

"The beginning?"

"Maybe start with,  _What is it_?"

I unclose my fist, holding up the beetle-bright pin with its gilded wings. He blinks, goes very still.

"It's . . . well . . . it's a pin. But the trouble is that . . . well . . . most pilots give them to girls and I don't mean to imply . . . that is . . . I don't mean . . ."

There is hilarity brewing in his expression, but he takes pity on me."Let me help you," he says, taking the pin from my hand and caressing it with his thumb. "This is your very special RFC pin that shows that you are very brave and very talented and very stupid. Lots of other brave, talented, stupid men give these to their wives or to their best girls . . ."

"Sometimes to their mothers."

"Alright, well, that's not really helping, but sure. All the same, this is your pin. And you want to give it to me. But you're worried that I will be insulted by the offer because it is normally a gift given to a woman."

"That's about the size of it," I mutter.

"I'm not insulted."

"No?"

"No. Just tell me: why do you want me to have it?"

Whitman whispers in my ear . . .  _carry me when you go forth over land or sea, for thus merely touching you is enough, is best, and thus touching you would I silently sleep and be carried eternally_  . . . but again, a quotation will not do.

I'm no poet. If I were, perhaps I would know a name for every hue of my heart, and paint him poems worth quoting. Instead, I can only offer up my few unadorned syllables and hope that he can hear what I would say if I could translate feelings into words.

"Because I'm yours. Truly."

Beaming, he fastens my wings on the breast of his shirt, where women wear their brooches and heroes display their medals.

The sight jolts me with the sandpaper intrusion of the real world. "You can't . . ."

"I know," he says, and his smile falters a bit. "Just for now, though."

Just for now. Just for here. Just for us.

Is that sad? That we should have only this moment? That we must carry one another in secret and write in riddles and hold ourselves aloof when others shout  _over the roofs of the world_? Perhaps. But I would save my pity for all the luckless wretches who have never seen this Paris and never will. I would not trade my place for any pale imitation whose only virtue is longevity.

Rising, I offer him my hand and pull him to his feet. My pin gleams over his heart and I can die happy now, knowing that I have said what I needed to say, words or no. With steady fingers, I hold him firmly by the chin and he returns my gaze.

Fearless (both). Equal (both). Bound (both). How can it mean  _confined_  when it also means  _to leap_? (I think I know.)

If we have only this hour, then let it be an  _hour of fullness and freedom, one brief hour of madness and joy_.

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes:**

I have a few of these behind-the-letters interludes. Avidiece suggested that I should put them in where chronologically appropriate, rather than posting them separately.

*LMM's description of Carl Meredith in  _Rainbow Valley_ , chapter 4, "The Manse Children"

** _Anne's House of Dreams_ , chapter 4, "The First Bride of Green Gables"

A note on poetry:

Shirley has absorbed  _Leaves of Grass_  (especially the  _Calamus_  and  _Children of Adam_  sections) so thoroughly at this point that it would be impossible to footnote every time he alludes to a line of Whitman (I have used italics when he quotes directly). Some of the poems he invokes are:

  
"I Sing the Body Electric"  
"From Pent-Up Aching Rivers"  
"Oh You Whom I Often and Silently Come"  
"Whoever You Are Now Holding Me in Hand"  
"Among the Multitude"

"One Hour to Madness and Joy"

 _One hour to madness and joy! O furious! O confine me not!_  
_(What is this that frees me so in storms?_  
_What do my shouts amid lightnings and raging winds mean?)_

 _O to drink the mystic deliria deeper than any other man!_  
_O savage and tender achings! (I bequeath them to you my children,_  
_I tell them to you, for reasons, O bridegroom and bride.)_

 _O to be yielded to you whoever you are, and you to be yielded to me in defiance of the world!_  
_O to return to Paradise! O bashful and feminine!_  
_O to draw you to me, to plant on you for the first time the lips of a determin'd man._

 _O the puzzle, the thrice-tied knot, the deep and dark pool, all untied and illumin'd!_  
_O to speed where there is space enough and air enough at last!_  
_To be absolv'd from previous ties and conventions, I from mine and you from yours!_  
_To find a new unthought-of nonchalance with the best of Nature!_

 _To have the gag remov'd from one's mouth!_  
_To have the feeling to-day or any day I am sufficient as I am._

 _O something unprov'd! something in a trance!_  
_To escape utterly from others' anchors and holds!_  
_To drive free! to love free! to dash reckless and dangerous!_  
_To court destruction with taunts, with invitations!_  
_To ascend, to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!_  
_To rise thither with my inebriate soul!_  
_To be lost if it must be so!_  
_To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!_  
_With one brief hour of madness and joy._


	37. The Safe Side of the Atlantic

**The Safe Side of the Atlantic**

* * *

**DISASTER AT KINGSPORT. MUNITION SHIP BLOWN UP. CITY ON FIRE. FEARED HEAVY LOSS OF LIFE.**  
( _The Times_ , London, 8 December 1917)

**KINGSPORT DEAD MAY BE 2,000**  
( _The Globe_ , Toronto, 7 December 1917)

**KINGSPORT DEATH TOLL 2,000 to 5,000: UNCOUNTED DEAD LIE IN RUINS OF STRICKEN CITY**  
( _Winnipeg Evening Tribune_ , 7 December 1917)

**CITY OF 5,000 DEAD**  
( _Chicago Herald Extra_ , 7 December 1917)*

* * *

7 December 1917

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jerry,

I am safe. Di is, too. I see now why you and Jem often begin your letters that way. It is the essential point.

I will not waste time in idle chatter. Yes, I got your letter. Yes, we will discuss it at a later date. But there is no time at present.

No doubt you will have heard the headline news long before this letter reaches you. We can't get too many particulars at present, but it seems that there was a collision between a munitions ship and another vessel in Kingsport Harbour. The collision caused a fire and the fire made the munitions ship explode. It may have been an accident or it may have been sabotage, but either way, it was an explosion like nothing I have ever read about or could have imagined.**

I was here at Aster House when it hit, around 9 o'clock in the morning yesterday. The physical shock of the explosion staggered me and broke every window on the north side of the house. When I ran outside to see, I thought for sure that we had been bombed. There was a cloud of smoke that reached up for miles into the air until you couldn't see the top of it. And on the ground — oh, Jerry, the city! Nearly everything north of Redmond was flattened right away and much of the rest burned through the night. It would be burning still, except that it began to snow — more than a foot so far today and flakes still falling fast. The snow put out some of the fires, but has made it very hard to help all the injured. Thousands and thousands of them. The hospitals are bursting with wounded — there aren't nearly enough doctors or supplies, and no more can get through this blizzard.

Di was already at the hospital for her regular shift when it happened. I went to Redmond at once, thinking that I must help to organize the Reds, seeing as Hazel hasn't been in any fit state. But when I arrived at our emergency gathering point, she was already there. Looking dreadful, with eyes like hot coals burnt into her face, but standing upright and ready to give orders. We conferred and decided that since so many of the girls have had a bit of first aid training, the best thing we could do was go to the hospital and try to help the people coming in.

I don't know whether I can describe the scene at the hospital, Jerry. I think I may have an idea of what a CCS looks like in the middle of a major offensive. Hundreds of people, lying all over the ground outside the building and more being carried there every minute, bleeding, burned, screaming. I saw one girl younger than myself carrying the body of a boy who must have been her brother. He was clearly dead, with his head all flattened and his clothes burned, but she was carrying him anyway, looking for what sort of help I don't know.

The glass injuries were the worst. It seems that the fire on the ship was visible from shore and lots of people down by the harbor were watching it from their homes or schools or offices or shops. When the explosion came, it turned all the windows into a million daggers that sliced through anyone standing at the glass. I saw many corpses like that, cut to ribbons by flying shards, and dozens upon dozens who didn't die, but lost their eyes.

I thought I would try to find Di and make sure she was alright, but it was impossible. The hospital itself wasn't much damaged, though, so I supposed she was only busy. Hazel and I had the Reds buddy up and do what they could to make the patients comfortable until a doctor could see them. I'm not particularly handy with bandages, but I can put pressure on a wound and pick glass with a tweezers. We did that until the light faded, and after that the snow began to fall, so we carried anyone who could be carried into the halls where at least they would be under a roof.

It was long past midnight when I got home — Di didn't come home at all until this morning, and only then because she couldn't have kept going without food and a bit of rest. I'm supposed to wake her in exactly an hour but think I will let her have two.

That isn't all, though. When I got home last night, I tripped over something on the porch. I thought it was another corpse and screamed a little bit, but then it moved and I screamed even more. When I came back to my senses, I saw that it was a woman and a little child, so I got the door open and brought them inside. It was already snowing hard — I couldn't have left them on the porch whoever they were. Not that it was any warmer in the house, with the north-facing windows all blown out, but I got a fire going and that helped.

Once the woman had recovered enough to speak, she told me who she was — Marie Gagnon, and the child is little Claude! She must have had our address from Emile and I'm only sorry that she felt she had to sleep on the porch, when she might have come in through the broken windows and at least kept a bit warmer.

Alas, my French is not quite as good as yours — the one time I didn't bother studying alongside you! But I have enough French and Marie has enough English that I understood that Claude had insisted on going to the park early in the morning yesterday — if he hadn't, they would have been incinerated with the rest of Patterson Street.

They have nothing left but the clothes on their backs and everyone they knew is killed or injured or displaced, and Marie said she couldn't think where else to go. She was awfully apologetic, but the truth is that I'm only glad I could help. I put them in Faith's room with a hot water bottle and as many extra blankets as I could find.

By that point, I was bone-weary, but I spent the rest of the night taking up Aunt Marilla's old braided rugs and nailing them over the broken windows to keep the snow and some of the cold out. I don't know if you would have laughed to see me, as with the painting episode, but I'm sure I was a sight to see. I did not realize how heavy those rugs were and I was at my wit's end.

I need your help, Jerry. Marie said that she doesn't know where Emile is — she knows that he was wounded at Passchendaele and his leg amputated, but the last she heard from him he was still in transit and she doesn't know which hospital they have moved him to. There's no chance of him reaching her by letter — Patterson Street doesn't exist anymore. And besides, I don't know how any mail will be get in or out of the city — I don't even know how I will get this letter to you.

But you must find Emile. You can do it, between you and Jem and Faith, can't you? Find him and tell him that Marie and Claude are safe and that they can stay at Aster House as long as they like and not to worry about them. And write Faith as soon as you get this and tell her that Di and I are unhurt.

That's all I can write. I must wake Di soon and then back to the hospital for us both. No time for anything else.

I know Di wrote Faith that I was angry. That was true until yesterday morning, but no time for that now either.

I love you. I am safe. Let that be enough for now.

Yours always,

Nan

* * *

10 December 1917

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Faith,

I hope that Jerry will have passed on word that Di and I are unhurt. I wrote him the first day and haven't had time to write at all since. Not that it might matter much — I don't know if the mail is up and running yet.

You can get Jerry to share my letter for a full account of the explosion, but the long and short is that Di and I are fine, and so are Marie Gagnon and little Claude. They are here at Aster House with us and safe. Have you found Emile yet? Please tell him they are alright — Marie is so worried and has no address for him other than the battalion — will they forward mail to him wherever he is now?

Aster House has never been such a busy place. Not just Marie and Claude — Dad is here, too, and Rev. Jo and Mrs. Blake.*** I wrote to Dad the first day as well, but he left home that same day without receiving my letter. They heard the news and the whole Glen got together and filled one of the larger fishing boats with food and blankets and spare clothes. Dad came along on the boat and brought bandages and medical supplies and himself — he's been at the hospital with Di ever since.

The boat couldn't land here without a wharf, so Dad had them put in at the little fishing village on the eastern shore where Rev. Jo and Mrs. Blake live, and then brought in the supplies in delivery trucks. Mrs. Blake has also directed her Bolingbroke friends to send supplies to Aster House and you can imagine how crowded things are now that we are a depot as well as a boarding house. Marie and Claude are in your room — Marie has been wonderful, keeping everyone fed, and Claude is a darling. The Blakes are in Sylvia's room; Dad is in Di's and Di's in with me, or would be if either of them had spent more than ten minutes in bed this week. I have barely seen them at all except when the Reds and I bring supplies down to the hospital (I try to bring food for Dad and Di at least once a day — they wouldn't eat otherwise).

Rev. Jo and Mrs. Blake are quite wretched — their old congregation was hit very hard and they are doing all they can for the people who are left. Rev. Jo has been out at Patterson Street every day, working alongside the crews recovering bodies from the rubble, and seeing that they are brought to the morgue and treated well. Mrs. Blake went the first day, but came back that evening looking ghastly. Since then, she has stayed here and Marie and I have helped her make up individual parcels from the donations that come in. We bring them downtown to the churches that are still standing.

Dad can't stay in Kingsport forever — Dr. Parker can't cover Lowbridge, Mowbray Narrows, the Harbor Head AND Glen St. Mary all by himself. To make matters worse, Dr. Anderson from Mowbray Narrows was killed at Passchendaele. I only hope everyone on the Island stays completely healthy for the foreseeable future.

I don't know when you will get this letter or when we might be able to get one from you. But if you get this and Jerry doesn't get any letters from me, tell him I love him and am doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances.

And find Emile, please.

Love to you and Sylvia (from Di, too),

Nan

* * *

12 December 1917

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Sylvia,

I haven't had a minute to write until now. But I am alright.

You wouldn't recognize the hospital here. Thousands and thousands of injured (women and children so horribly wounded and burned), with our staff half-strength, and the better half so very far away.

Dad is here and I'm so glad. He always makes it seem that he has everything in hand. If I can become half the doctor he is, that will be enough for me.

I'm sorry I can't write more. I can't keep my eyes open a moment longer. But I wanted to send you line to tell you I am safe and I am working and I could say I wish you were here, but I am glad that you are not.

Yours always,

Di

* * *

Notes:

*I've swapped "Kingsport" in for "Halifax," but these are the real headlines from these newspapers in the days after the Halifax Explosion. Since Kingsport is a very thinly fictionalized Halifax in LMM's stories, it seemed important to put this in. LMM ignores the Halifax Explosion completely, which makes for a perplexing lacuna in her account of how civilians in Atlantic Canada experienced WWI.

**On December 6, 1917, the SS Mont-Blanc, a cargo ship loaded with explosives, collided with another ship in the narrow strait on the northeast side of Halifax. It exploded — the largest man-made explosion before nuclear weapons. The blast leveled a large portion of the city, killing over 2,000 people and injuring at least 9,000 more.

***Phil and Jo moved away from Kingsport sometime in the early 1900s. As related by Christine in  _Anne of Ingleside_ : "Happy! My dear, if you could see the place they live in! A wretched little fishing village where it was an excitement if the pigs broke into the garden! I was told that the Jonas-man had had a good church in Kingsport and had given it up because he thought it his 'duty' to go to the fishermen who 'needed' him."


	38. On My Way Home to You

**On My Way Home To You**

* * *

24 December 1917

Bramshott Military Camp, Hampshire, England

Dear Nan,

Thank God you are safe. I have written half a dozen times since we heard about Kingsport, but don't know whether any mail can get through to you yet. I will keep writing in hopes that something gets delivered.

Your letter arrived this morning. I can't tell you what torture mail call has been these past few weeks. I expect you don't need to be told what that is like, but it is a novel experience for me, and one I could have done very well without.

When the news came through on the 7th, I thought it must be some sort of macabre joke. All of a sudden, everyone seemed to be whispering about Kingsport, but I only caught hints here and there until someone handed me a newspaper. Even then, I thought it couldn't possibly be real. Thousands dead? In Kingsport?

And then no news for such a long time — so very, very long, Nan. I wrote to Faith and Jem but neither of them had any word either and what news we could get from the papers was simply unspeakable. Can those photographs possibly be real? The whole northern half of the city just piles of rubble? I have seen cities like that, and villages — homes destroyed and churches wrecked and civilians killed in the blinking of an eye. But Kingsport? It still seems like a nightmare. I spent these weeks poring over those photographs looking for landmarks and thinking that it seemed that Aster House probably would have been spared, but it was always possible that wasn't, or that you might have gone out on an errand, or got caught in the fire . . .

Nan, I am so very, very sorry. I should be home with you right this very moment. Instead, I am waist-deep in paperwork, driven half mad with worry, and cursing myself for signing on again. All I could think these past weeks was that the last thing I'd done was disappoint you and I never got a chance to make it right. I am so sorry, Nan. Sorrier than I ever have been over anything.

Of course I will do as you say and find Emile. Jem's in Bexhill-on-Sea and there's a good chance Emile will have written to him. If Emile is even half as anxious about Marie and Claude as I've been about you, I think an amputated leg will be rather far down the list of his troubles at the moment.

I have not seen Faith recently — she went down to Bexhill on her leave. I am quite wild with jealousy and miserable as well, knowing that it is my own fault I'm not with you right now. No, I did not laugh at you nailing up the rugs. I should have been there holding them up for you.

What can be beautiful here except what you have sent over? Letters, pictures, your piece of lace. Every day, I look for something beautiful in England and find that everything I want is already in my pockets.

I feel that perhaps I am only now getting a glimpse of what these past three years have been for you. From your letter, it seems that you are doing wonderful work. The city is as lucky to have you there as I am wretched here.

I love you. You are safe. That must be enough for now.

All my love and then more,

Jerry

* * *

25 December 1917

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Anne,

Happy Christmas, darling. I'm sorry I have not written more often, but I know you understand how busy we have been here. I found the note you slipped into my valise, though, and was very glad that I did not let the girls unpack it for me!

You would be so proud of them, Anne. Both of them.

Through all of this, Nan has been a brick — I mean that absolutely and with more than a little awe. She has worked so calmly and steadily and has never succumbed to despair — I haven't heard her complain about a single thing the whole time I've been here. You were worried that she would go to pieces — that isn't her anymore. She's pitching in with the best of them.

The other day, I came back to Aster House for a change of clothes and there was Nan, on a ladder, hammering slats over the empty window frames, with a nail hanging out of the corner of her mouth. I had a sudden vision of her as a little girl, painting the side of the schoolhouse with her nose in the air and a smudge on her cheek. Do you remember that? How we laughed over it. Ideals indeed. I do hope she's forgiven Jerry for re-enlisting — I remember well enough what it is like to be on the outs and must extend my sympathies to the poor boy. The mail finally came in and nearly all of it was from him.

And Di. Anne-girl, she is a doctor to her fingertips. How can it be that there was a time when I didn't see it? The patients adore her. On the first day I was here, I saw her comfort a hysterical father, notice a smoke patient struggling to breathe when the doctors had passed him by without a second glance, and put in a line of sutures as expertly as I could have done myself. Edgar tends toward generosity in his compliments, but he was only telling the plain truth about Di. I know you worry about her and the difficult road she has chosen. But I've seen her at her work, and it is her home.

Phil and Jo send you their love. Jo has been doing the hardest work of any of us, going out to what used to be Patterson Street every day and working with the crews there. They are still pulling bodies out of the wreckage. Jo accompanies them to the morgue and then goes with the families to identify them when there's enough left to identify.* So many of his old congregation have been lost — sometimes whole families. There will never be a full count. I don't know how he can do it, Anne. You know how it is for me when I lose a patient who should have lived a long, happy, useful life. To lose so many like this — over nothing — is appalling. But you know Jo — a servant of all, as ever.

Phil has been looking after the living — she and Nan and Marie take parcels of donations that come in from her Bolingbroke connections over to the churches nearly every day. Today, they have been down at one of the Presbyterian churches all day, serving soup to people who have lost everything. Phil says to tell you that Gordon is doing much better. He is convalescing at Mount Holly with his grandparents, and though his lungs may never be what they once were, they have hope that he will continue to improve with fresh air and exercise. Phil had a letter from Olly last week and he is well. He was the only officer in his battalion to come through Passchendaele without a scratch.

I mean to stay in Kingsport another week and then I'll be on my way home to you. The immediate crisis is past — most of the patients are stable now, and the hospitals are operating more normally. Doctors have come from all over to help — Harvard Medical School sent a hospital train, fully staffed, with 500 beds. How many doctors do they have at that place anyway? And how do they get any teaching done when they are forever running off to one disaster or another?

It will take years to rebuild, though. Poor old Kingsport. You would weep to see it. Crowded with refugees and rubble — quite as bad as Belgium, from what I've seen. Housing and feeding them all will be no small task, and we must see that the Island sends as much aid as possible.

But I have done what I can for now. I hate to be apart from you, especially at Christmas. Nothing but true disaster could have called me away, and even that not for long. Coming home from the hospital to a cold, lonely bed only makes me realize how unutterably lucky I have been these many years, and how no accolades or honors at a big city hospital could be better than our life together in the Glen. I have a mad desire to tell you get your snowshoes ready, so that I when I come home, we can go tramping out together through the winter woods. But I think perhaps we might just tell the others we've both come down with a touch of cold and really must be left undisturbed while we recover.

Keep a warm place for me, won't you? I'll be home soon.

All my love always,

Gil

* * *

Notes:

*Arthur Barnstead, the Registrar of Deaths in Halifax, was in charge of the overwhelming job of identifying the dead, many of whom were burned beyond recognition. He implemented a system that had been developed by his father, coroner John Barnstead, who had been in charge of the bodies recovered from the  _Titanic_  five years earlier. This system involved describing each corpse in terms that might be useful to relatives and placing any clothing or objects found with the body in a bag that stayed with it. Many badly damaged corpses were identified by their personal effects.


	39. What a Salutation!

**What a Salutation!**

* * *

21 December 1917

Amiens, France

Dear Carl,

Kingsport news still bad. I haven't had any letters from home dated after the 6th. Have you?

I did get a Christmas package, though, just like the ones Susan used to send us those weekends during exam time when we would stay at Queen's. Do you remember? She must have sent it before the explosion because the note inside had no word of Di and Nan.

Saturday, I was in a real fight. I took down one German plane and sent another limping home. When I got back to solid earth, I was sick in a ditch. I won't deny that there is a certain thrill to aerial combat, but I don't think it can be quite the same kind of thrill my mother used to speak of. I've grown to enjoy the flying, but the shooting is something else altogether.

Somehow I don't think the folks at home would like Paris very much.

Yours truly,

Shirley

* * *

28 December 1917

Chaudière, France

Dear Shirley,

You're right, I don't suppose they would. I did, though, and that is what counts.

Oh, I certainly do remember those care packages. Some of my best memories of Queen's are of days when we shared one of them.

Unfortunately, I have had no letters written after the 6th — I suppose mail must be somewhat disrupted there. But when I do, I will write you straight away.

Right now, things are going pretty well. The boys in my section had the idea of a rat hunt through the trenches this week and that kept us occupied. I know rats and their habits and won first prize easily. I did feel bad about spearing them with my bayonet, though. After all, they are my  _poor, earth-born companions and fellow-mortals_.* I did take pity on one. He is a friendly little fellow and I have named him Cricket because he chirps. He curls up and sleeps in my pocket at night and I feed him on bits of biscuit.**

Surely I never knew anybody with nerves like yours, so I believe you when you say that aerial combat is hard on them. I once thought it must take a reckless sort of courage to go up in one of those contraptions. But now I can imagine you, calm and steady, getting the job done and only being sick about it after. You know I will always worry, but I am grateful to have you looking out for all of us down here.

Yours truly,

Carl

P.S. Every time I see an aeroplane, I say a prayer for you. There are rather a lot of them.

* * *

3 January 1918

Amiens, France

Dear Carl,

Makes sense that you have a tame rat. I would expect nothing less. I suppose your bunkmates are very pleased to know that they share such close quarters with one of the charming creatures. I remember now that Jerry refused to share a bed with you when you were children for a similar reason.***

I am doing as well as anybody here. I have taken down another German fighter and a loaded bomber that was headed for a run on some trenches. I shot it down in no-man's-land and it exploded in a tremendous fireball without doing any damage at all to our line.

Nan and Di are safe. My mother writes that my father went to Kingsport to help at the hospital, so things must be pretty bad there.

Every time I see a rat, I say a prayer for you. There are rather a lot of them.

Yours truly,

Shirley

* * *

9 January 1918

Canadian Training School, Bexhill-on-Sea, Sussex, England

Dear Mrs. Blythe,

What a salutation! I have waited an awfully long time to use it and sorely regret that I can only write it, rather than shouting it from the rooftops! Must we really keep it secret? Oh well, I suppose you are well aware of it and that's what counts. Whoever censors this letter will know it, too (hello, censor!) but I don't suppose he will take much notice (I promise that I got permission to marry from my CO, dear censor. Cross my heart).

I could tell you all about training here, but who cares? Clean beds and hot food and it is very nearly a holiday, even with all the lectures and parading around. I laugh every morning when I wake up to my view of the sea and again every evening when I come home to this fancy old hotel with its grand staircase and chandeliers. Whoever thought to house us in a vacationer's paradise had a very keen appreciation for the absurd. We even have parade drill at the shore! They can go on training me forever as far as I'm concerned.****

Yesterday, we spent three hours (! ! !) going over proper salutes and greetings for officers. How officer cadets must salute commissioned officers, and are encouraged to offer a verbal greeting as well. And if you are leading your men past another officer, you must order them eyes-left or eyes-right and salute, but only if he is of field rank (major or higher). And that if an officer passes an OR and the OR's hands are occupied, a verbal greeting will stand in for a proper salute. The instructors must have come up with a hundred scenarios and demonstrated them all with little skits.

I know the army thinks a lot of it, but it's all desperately funny. A few of the boys here haven't been over to France yet, but nearly all of us are field-commissioned and it is sometimes very hard to keep a straight face when we are drilled on the finer points of protocol. But as long as they keep fattening us up, I'll happily learn the proper way to salute a brevet Lieutenant-Colonel on his mother's birthday when the wind is from the southeast.

The best thing about this place (besides its proximity to London) is the recreation. I've joined my cadet class football team and my, but we have a good time. It is freezing and muddy, but it feels wonderful to run hard and then go in for a hot shower. We are quite sensible of the luxury, I tell you.

Do see if you can't come down again, Faith. We have liberty often enough in the evenings and Sundays as well. Say hello to Sylvia for me (that girl is a peach and I owe her one).

Your loving husband (! ! !),

Jem

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

P.S. I had a letter from Emile today. He was so relieved to have word of Marie and Claude. He will be in the hospital a long while yet, but the leg means that he has a guaranteed ticket home and he cannot wait to punch it. As for myself, I am more content with my current circumstances than I have been at any time since the dance at the Four Winds light.

* * *

13 January 1918

St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London

Jem!

As much as I enjoyed reading your last letter (and I did!) you must be more circumspect about what you put in writing! I hate to destroy any of your correspondence, but I'd be in quite a bit of trouble if anyone saw that particular salutation, so I had to snip off the top of the page. I didn't ask permission to marry and if the V.A.D. knew that we had, they'd never allow me to transfer to a hospital in France. Please take a bit more care!

I'm very glad to hear word of Emile. I have had another letter from Nan (dated the 24th) and she says that Marie is getting on fine. She writes that Claude is a darling and everyone in the house loves him to pieces. She also writes that Hazel is getting by alright — she was very low in November, of course, but Nan says she has met the emergency with grace and is directing the Reds like a general. Thank you again for sending those papers, love. And for writing. I know it was not easy, but it meant the world.

Nan and Di are doing well. I'm ashamed to admit that I am a bit surprised at Nan's pluck (often thinking her the wilting type), but she has risen to the occasion. They all have. Di can't write much, of course, being far too busy at the hospital. But things are starting to calm down there as well, or at least that's what Sylvia tells me. Nan says that your father is getting ready to go home, so the hospitals and their staffs must be back on their feet.

Do you ever get enough liberty to come to London? I can't make it to Bexhill and back on a half-day off, but if you can ever come up, tell me and I will try to get my break then. Will you have leave at the end of your training?

Love and love and love,

Faith

P.S. I am sending along some gingerbread. Not homemade, alas, but it's the best I could manage. Take care you don't share too much of it — I intend it medicinally, as it is my professional opinion that you could indeed use a bit of fattening up.*****

P.P.S. All clear.

* * *

3 January 1918

St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London

Dear Di,

I have your letter at last. Faith got Nan's earlier letter and shared it with me, so I knew that you were safe, but it is still a relief to see it in your own hand.

I wish I were by your side in the the current emergency. It is awful to think of lovely Kingsport in ashes. We always thought it such a safe place, almost as if it were an invisible sanctuary out of the ordinary world. I have seen London, but Kingsport will always seem to me the very best city and Aster House the very best home in it.

I took two weeks' leave with Faith so that she could go down and see Jem in Bexhill-on-Sea. We are not allowed to travel alone or stay in hotels alone, and I owe her several favors in that line, as you well know.

I got rather a lot of reading done on our trip. I am sending you a copy of a vampire story called  _Carmilla_  that I found in a bookshop on one of my lonely evenings at the seaside.****** At first blush, you will think it is more Nan's type of story, but at second I think you will find something in it for yourself as well. I know I certainly laughed myself silly over it. I know you are far too busy to read for pleasure. But do take a moment to rest — you won't do anyone any good if you run yourself into the ground, dearest.

My love to Nan and hello to all your guests. Of course I don't mind that Rev. and Mrs. Blake are using my room — someone should.

Keep up your good work and write me whenever you can, even a single line.

Yours truly,

Sylvia

* * *

Notes:

*Robert Burns, "To a Mouse" (1785) As established in Glen Notes, this is Carl's favorite poem.

** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 27. Rilla's diary entry for December 31, 1917: "I had a great batch of letters from overseas this week. Shirley is at the front now, too, and writes about it all as coolly and matter-of-factly as he used to write of football at Queen's. Carl wrote that it had been raining for weeks . . . Carl's letters are always full of jokes and bits of fun. They had a great rat-hunt the night before he wrote — spearing rats with their bayonets — and he got the best bag and won the prize. He has a tame rat that knows him and sleeps in his pocket at night."

***"Jerry refused to sleep with him because Carl had once taken a young garter snake to bed with him; so Carl slept in his old cot, which was so short that he could never stretch out, and had strange bed-fellows."  _Rainbow Valley_ , chapter 4.

**** Canadian officer candidates at the training school in Bexhill-on-Sea were housed in the lovely seaside Metropole Hotel. Thanks, kslchen!

***** "Jem is a lieutenant now — he won his promotion on the field. He sent me a snap-shot, taken in his new uniform. He looked thin and old — old — my boy-brother Jem. I can't forget mother's face when I showed it to her. 'That — my little Jem — the baby of the old House of Dreams?' was all she said. There was a letter from Faith, too. She is doing V.A.D. work in England and writes hopefully and brightly. I think she is almost happy — she saw Jem on his last leave and she is so near him she could go to him, if he were wounded. That means so much to her."  _RoI_  chapter 27

****** _Carmilla_  (1872) by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu is a Gothic novella in which a female vampire preys on beautiful young women (including the teenage narrator, Laura). The lesbian subtext is . . . not all that subtextual.


	40. Kitten

**Kitten**

* * *

1 March 1918

Houdain, France

Dear Shirley,

I had a letter from Una today. She tells me that you have been promoted to Flight Lieutenant. Congratulations. Una says all the folks at home are very proud.

I was a little surprised to hear it from her. You don't think that's the sort of thing you might write to me about? It's been a few weeks since I heard from you. Even if you have no news, you could still write. And if you do have news — for instance, that you have been promoted — I'd be grateful to hear it from you, not from my sister.

I'm as well as can be expected. The slog goes on. I'm certainly not an officer or anything like that. Just a humble foot soldier sitting in the mud, waiting for news to go halfway around the world before it gets to me.

Yours truly,

Carl

* * *

22 March 1918

La Bellevue, France*

Dear Carl,

My commanding officer gave me a promotion once I had killed 8 men in aerial combat. Actually, I had probably killed more, since some of the planes I shoot go off and crash where we can't see them and others are two-seaters, but the promotion was for 8 confirmed kills. Colonel Mayweather says he'll make me a captain if I can bag 12.** Let's not count all the men I've massacred in strafing runs. Lots.

I am very good at this. As of this minute I've already got 10 confirmed kills and will probably have my 12 by Easter if I somehow manage to stay alive that long.

How am I supposed to feel about that? Should I be bragging? Writing jubilant letters about my good news? "Dear Carl, I excel at murder." I didn't even tell Una — Colonel Mayweather must have written to my parents.

Don't ask me to write about this.

Shirley

* * *

2 April 1918

Oppy, France

Dear Shirley,

Do you remember that time when we were kids and we found that huge mastiff shaking a kitten out behind the blacksmith's shop? I never saw such a dog in my life. I thought for sure that kitten was dead. But you picked up a rock and flung it straight at that dog's head, good and hard, like an avenging angel. I could never understand how you hit it so square. But the dog yelped and dropped the kitten and ran off with its tail between its legs. I took the kitten home — it wasn't dead and it is still prowling around the manse at this very moment as far as I know. That's one of the clearest memories of my childhood.

Every plane you take down is one that doesn't strafe our lines. Having been on the business end of more than a few strafing runs myself, I can't feel anything but gratitude that there are 10 fewer enemy planes in the sky.

Anyway, you aren't a murderer. You wouldn't feel sick over this if you were. We've all done horrible things. But you'll have a hard time convincing me that protecting the line is one of them.

Really, you don't have to write about it. But please do write. I can imagine an awful lot when I don't hear from you for a while.

Yours truly,

Carl

P.S. Happy Birthday.

* * *

14 April 1918

Remaisnil, France

Dear Carl,

Well, I guess you have a new nickname.

I'm a captain now.

Yours truly,

Shirley

* * *

22 April 1918

Mericourt, France

Dear Shirley,

Don't you dare.

Cricket says hello.

Yours truly,

Carl

* * *

Notes:

*Shirley's movements are based on the pilot log book of Flight Commander Norman Bruce Scott of the RFC/RAF, 11th Squadron. Scott (1898-1982) was a Canadian pilot who mostly flew as observer in two-seater fighters, but recorded two aerial victories of his own and survived the war. I based much of Shirley's training on Scott's papers, though I had to shift the timeline a couple of months in order to fit canon (Scott enlisted in the summer of 1917, so he was a couple of months behind canon Shirley in his training). You can find his log book online at the Desoronto (Ontario) Archives — it lists every flight he made from training through 1919, with the place, the type of plane, some notes on the outcome, etc.

**The RFC and RNAS merged to form the RAF on April 1, 1918, but the updated RAF ranks did not come into regular use until 1919. Sometimes pilots were called by one ranking system, sometimes by another. I'm just going to make an editorial decision here and say that Shirley has been promoted to "captain" (equivalent to "flight commander" in RAF rank), because that's the language Norman Bruce Scott was using.


	41. He Hath Destroyed Me on Every Side

**He Hath Destroyed Me On Every Side**

* * *

MARITIME TELEGRAM COMPANY  
VIA CHARLOTTETOWN  
FROM OTTAWA ONT MAY 9 1918

DR GILBERT BLYTHE  
GLEN ST MARY PEI

REGRET TO INFORM YOU LT JAMES M BLYTHE REPORTED WOUNDED AND MISSING IN TRENCH RAID MAY 6 1918

* * *

30 May 1918

Remaisnil, France

Dear Carl,

Likely you have not heard about Jem yet. Wounded and missing. Perhaps captured. No one knows.

Rilla writes that the folks at home are keeping up hope, but I don't know how anyone survives a minute in this mess, let alone someone who is wounded and missing. I've seen a few German prisoners here — they are thin and hungry, with their boots full of holes. If they can't feed their own, their prison camps must be grim places. If anyone can come through, it's Jem. I just don't see how anyone can.

Do you think you will be able to get any leave this summer? I think I could — Colonel Mayweather continues to be impressed with my work. A trip to Paris would do me a world of good.

Yours truly,

Shirley

* * *

7 June 1918

Casualty Clearing Station #6, Pernes, France

Dear Shirley,

I am at the CCS, but I am alright. Not wounded, exactly.

About a week ago, several of us were asleep in an old barn — not even in the trenches — we are well back of the line for rest and training. Somehow, the barn caught fire in the middle of the night. Most of us got out. I tried to pull Sgt. Donovan out, but the whole structure gave way and collapsed on top of us and I was buried in the rubble. Someone pulled me out, though, and I am not seriously injured. Just slightly singed and a bit sore in the ribs. I'll be back with the battalion soon.*

I can't get any leave but sick leave at the moment. The army is not particularly generous to us ORs. Besides, by the time I'm well enough to go anywhere, I'm sure we'll be back in the trenches. I sure wish I could, though.

I'm very sorry to hear about Jem. You're right — if anyone can make it, he can. I haven't given up hope for him and you shouldn't either.

Yours truly,

Carl

* * *

7 June 1918

St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London

Dear Una,

We got married. In December when he was training in Bexhill. I went down on the train with Sylvia and met him there and he had a marriage license and we ran and chased down the registrar on his way home to supper and we got married right then and there with Sylvia and some soldier whose name I never caught for witnesses.

I'm sorry I didn't tell you. We meant to keep it secret unless we couldn't. I wanted to get a transfer to France, but V.A.D.s aren't allowed to serve there if their husbands are at the front and I still wanted to go to France, so he agreed to keep it secret for my sake, even agreed to take certain precautions to keep it that way. He wanted to shout from the rooftops and I asked him to be silent. To wait.

I lie awake. If he is alive, he is surely suffering horribly. And if he isn't, I asked him to be quiet. After all the waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting, I asked him to wait again. How could I do it, Una? Deny him any joy? Any comfort? Deny myself, if it comes to that? He always wanted children — as many as I'd allow, he used to say — but I asked him to wait and he agreed for my sake and now I wish I could slap myself into sense because how could I ever have thought a transfer to France could ever matter at all it was the stupidest stupidest thing and I might never be able to make it right or say I'm sorry. Who cares about France at all? I can never go now — what if he is out there and looking for me and I am not where he left me?

I do my nursing duties as best I can. I have a duty to the patients, and nothing will change that. I came here to help, and I mean to continue. Sometimes I even feel a glimmer of satisfaction in a job well done, but that feels like a betrayal.

Do you remember "Auld Robin Gray" that we learned in school? It has lodged itself in my brain so firmly that I begin to think myself haunted. I cannot shake it, sleeping or waking: _I gang like a ghost, for I canna sit to spin, I daren't think on Jamie, for that would be a sin_.**

I do try to pray. But all that comes to me is Job.  _He hath destroyed me on every side, and I am gone: and mine hope hath he removed like a tree_. My very name mocks me. I cannot even bear to sign it.

* * *

Notes:

*This fire and building collapse really did happen to some men from the 87th, 31 May 1918 in Valhuon, France.

**"Auld Robin Gray" by Anne Lindsay Barnard

 


	42. Reverend Meredith

**Reverend Meredith**

* * *

23 June 1918

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Courage, Faith. You must keep it for Jem, and I will keep it for you. But it is perhaps a different sort of courage than you are used to. You are the bravest person I know, but now you must be brave enough to be weak.

If God has given Job to you, then you must pray from Job. Remember that when God had brought him low, through no fault of his own, Job did not lose faith:  _Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him._  And more than that, you must remember that remonstrances gained Job nothing. Neither argument nor weeping did him a bit of good. It was only when Job really and truly gave himself over to God that his torments ceased. Pray Job's prayer:  _I abhor myself and repent in dust and ashes_.*

It is a hard thing to pray, especially for you. You have ever been a sunflower in God's garden, Faith, you and Jem both. It will never be easy for you to put yourself wholly into His hands, as we poor violets do.

God knows that. And that is why He has not sent you Job alone. He has put Job into your heart, but He has put "Auld Robin Gray" into your ear. Sing through the other verses, Faith:  _I'm come hame to marry thee_.** That Jamie came back after everyone had given him up for lost, and if God has given you "Auld Robin Gray," I think you may trust that yours will as well.

Rosemary told me once that God speaks to us all in our own languages. Father has his books and Carl has his creatures. I do not know how God speaks to you, Faith, but you must try to listen. Perhaps He will speak through your patients, or through Miss Margaret Douglas. But fear not; He will send you the words you need to hear.

As will I: I love you always. You are not friendless, and never can be, as long as I draw breath. Hope is never lost, Faith, not even when you cannot keep it yourself. God will not abandon you, and neither will I.

And if you can trust nothing else, trust Little Dog Monday, who has never yet mourned for your Jem as he did for Walter.

All my love,

Una

* * *

30 June 1918

Bramshott Military Camp, Hampshire, England

Dear Nan,

Last summer, you wrote to me of Desiderius Erasmus, and I scoffed. I have never been one to value Erasmus's  _Complaint of Peace_ , nor his idea that strife is itself an evil. Give me Luther, I thought, and his  _On the Bondage of the Will_  — his belief that tumult and violence are worthwhile if the word of the True God can drive out error. I once thought Erasmus a coward for saying that  _war is the destroyer of all things and the very seed of evil_.*** Can't we make a better world by fighting for one? Isn't that what the Reformation gave us? Truth through strife?

I don't know anymore, Nan. The price is too high. What new world is worth this? Perhaps only the one Jem spoke of often enough:  _A world where wars can't happen._ **** Do you think such a world is possible? If it is, perhaps all this will be worth it to our children or their children or theirs. But it will never be worth it to me.

It seems absurd to think of Jem and death as adjacent concepts. I could imagine myself dying far easier than I could imagine a world without him.

Of course it has always been a possibility. There is no logic here. Still, I have looked for it — for sense in the senseless. Somehow, after everything, I guess I still believed that we could puzzle out a meaning. How foolish that looks, written down.

It's not that we expected or wanted to lose Walter. Of course we didn't. But Walter never had more than one foot in the mundane world, did he? Somehow it was not a surprise that he could leave it.

This is different.

I suppose it is possible to build a new world with no Jem in it. But who would want to live there?

Jerry

* * *

15 July 1918

St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London

Dear Reverend Una,

At least I know what God has sent to you. Father could not have done better himself. Perhaps you will read that as a joke, but it is not. You may not be ordained, but that does not mean that you are not called.

Thank you, Una. I cannot describe these past few weeks in any sensible way. But since receiving your letter, I have felt a calm I cannot explain. Ever since May, I have gone every day to the hospital chapel and prayed for Jem's safe return. But these past few days since your letter arrived, I have prayed for my own heart, that God might accept it in all its brokenness. God did indeed send me what I needed: you.

You are right, of course. It has not been my way to humble myself in any circumstance. Even these past four years, I have believed — really believed — that nothing could touch me. It seems silly to say that I thought myself an exception to every rule and ignored good advice as irrelevant to me and mine. I don't mean the petty advice of etiquette and convention, which is of no consequence. I mean the important advice:  _Watch therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of man cometh_. I have been a foolish virgin, and let my lamp run dry. You, wiser, have ever been a light in darkness.*****

I do not know whether Jem will come back to me. Faith Meredith Blythe, B.A., knows better than to read meaning into old ballads and little dogs.

But, at the same time, I believe that he will. Maybe not in this world. But I feel a new assurance that I will see him again someday, somewhere. It is not the same sort of hubris as before, thinking myself untouchable. It is a different sort of belief — I have already called it a "calm," but I do not know a better word for it. Is this Grace? It seems a thing quite apart from myself and I give myself over to it.

Thank you, Una. Reverend Meredith. Not a joke at all.

Love,

Faith

* * *

Notes:

*Job 13:15; 42:6.

**Anne Lindsay Barnard, "Auld Robin Gray"

***Desiderius Erasmus,  _The Complaint of Peace_  (1517) and Martin Luther,  _On the Bondage of the Will_  (1525)

****From Jem's speech at the end of  _Rilla of Ingleside_.

*****Matthew 25: 1-13


	43. By Any Name

**By Any Name**

* * *

MARITIME TELEGRAM COMPANY  
VIA CHARLOTTETOWN  
FROM OTTAWA ONT AUGUST 13 1918

REV JOHN MEREDITH  
GLEN ST MARY PEI

REGRET TO INFORM YOU PTE THOMAS C MEREDITH SLIGHTLY WOUNDED AUGUST 6 1918 TRANSFERRED TO WESTCLIFFE HOSPITAL ENGLAND

* * *

20 August 1918

Westcliffe Eye and Ear Hospital, Folkestone, Kent, England

Dear Shirley,

I have been wounded, but am alright.

The wound is not so bad — I'm in no real danger. But I've been transferred to a hospital in England and will likely be sent home after because the wound is to my right eye and there's no chance I will regain sight in it.

I am not much discouraged.  _One eye is enough to watch bugs with_.*

I suppose I'm glad to be on my way home, though sorry that I will be such a long way from Paris.

Yours truly,

Carl

P.S. Have you had any word of Jem?

* * *

26 August 1918

Le Quesnoy, France

Dear Kit,

I was very sorry to hear about your eye. But as sorry as I am over it, I am ten times gladder that you are out of the trenches and headed for home. I can't take down every German plane in the sky, though I am trying.

I was thinking that it will be your birthday again soon enough. Happy birthday, in case I don't get another chance to tell you. When things are grim here, I sometimes think of your birthday in the Glen, and how Rilla springing out of the dark frightened me worse than any Fokker flying out of the sun ever has.** It was worth it, though.

Are you really alright? You know you can tell me. I would rather know plainly how things are with you than get a cheerful letter unless you really mean it. You don't have to write about it. But you can.

No word from (or about) Jem.

Yours truly,

Shirley

* * *

2 September 1918

Westcliffe Eye and Ear Hospital, Folkestone, Kent, England

Dear Shirley,

Be assured that I don't need to be reminded of the night Rilla scared you — it is one of my very fondest memories and I have revisited it often these past four years. I can only hope we'll both be home in time to celebrate your next birthday in like manner.

You ask me to write plainly and I will try, though I hardly know what to say.

Although it is taking some time to adjust, I am healing well. The eye is gone, but I am otherwise unhurt. I spend some time reading and writing letters for the other men, though I find it takes some practice to do both with only one eye. I am thankful that it is my eye and not yours, though — mine are not quite so valuable to the war effort as yours are.

Nevertheless, it is very strange to be in a safe place. After so long at the front, I find it difficult to let my guard down and rest as I should. I just can't seem to settle, and if I manage to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time, I wake up in a panic and drenched with sweat.

Yesterday, I woke in the pitch black, not knowing where I was, and felt that I was suffocating under that collapsed barn again, with the weight of it pressing on me from every side and smoke and flames creeping up around me and Sgt. Donovan screaming just beyond my reach. I thought that perhaps I was finally in Hell, with the flakes of fire raining down around me and the endless, burning sand sucking me down like Dante by way of Passchendaele. It did not help that I tried and tried again to open the eye I no longer have.

Now the doctors say I will adjust, and I pray that they are right. For now, I am just trying to keep calm. Jerry is supposed to come see me this week if he can get a pass. I have been trying not to worry about that. I haven't seen him in four years and do not know how it will be.

Alas, I had to leave Cricket behind in France. I think he will be the last of his kind — I have had enough of rats. But there are some starlings that live in an elm near the ward, and I have begun to make their acquaintance as I sit by the window. That has helped. I'm afraid I will always need to have some sort of small animals about.

My hope is that the other men in my ward can reconcile themselves to that fact.

England is fine, but it is nothing like Paris, and I know where I would rather be.

Yours truly,

Carl

* * *

19 September 1918

Vert Galant Farm, France

Dear Kit,

Little birds aren't so bad — I can't imagine that they bother the men in your ward much. Haven't I ever told you the story of Cock Robin? I must have. The summer I was four or five, Susan found a baby robin on the doorstep at Ingleside after a rainstorm and we raised him by hand. I spent that whole summer digging worms for him — I'm afraid I left tin cans full of worms all over the house. Susan didn't like that, but she did like Cock Robin, who used to perch on her finger and sing or sit on her shoulder while she knit. He would fly away for the winter, but always came back in the spring.**

Of course, no one would object to the presence of any animals that help you feel better. Not even rats. Really.

Very soon, you'll be in the Glen and can spend all your time among the trees and the reeds and the wide-open shore. That will be better. You always were at home when you had your birds and beasts and beetles.

England isn't so very far. If I can get leave, maybe I could come visit you in the hospital. It certainly wouldn't be like Paris, but it would calm my mind considerably just to see for myself how you are. You could introduce me to your starlings.

Yours truly,

Shirley

* * *

19 September 1918

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Dad,

I just wanted to let you know that Nan and I are well.

Term has started here and I am getting along fine. I feel very well prepared, having already worked through most of the first-year textbooks and having so much practical experience at the hospital. I have not found any of the courses particularly challenging so far, not even the chemistry.

It is strange to see the hospital from the medical students' point of view after knowing it so long from the nurses'. Sometimes during clinic, one of the doctors will recognize me and startle, not expecting to see me among the first-years. There is one other woman in the class, so I am not entirely odd one out.*** I do miss Dr. Wilson, though — he was always very kind to me. If you write to him, please send my best regards.

We have had our first flu death at Kingsport hospital. I did not see the patient myself before he died, but have heard the whispers among the doctors. I do not doubt that I will soon have the chance to see others like him. I have not heard any reports of flu deaths on the Island yet - have you had any? I hope that it may yet pass you by.

Marie and Claude send their love. Please thank Mother and Susan for sending the winter clothes for Claude. I recognized the green-and-blue checked coat as one that all the boys wore, and I know it must have cost Mother something to give it away. If she wishes to hear it, tell her that it is already being put to good use. When I went home for supper yesterday, Nan and Claude were clearing leaves from the garden and falling over in the piles, laughing. Nan is good spirits. She is getting along well at the high school and hopes they might offer her a full-time contract for the spring term, rather than just filling in as needed.

Marie expects that Emile should be coming home soon and is beginning to look for an apartment for them if she can find one without too many stairs. There aren't many apartments of any description to be had in Kingsport at the moment, but new buildings are going up every day. I will not be too sorry if she must wait, as we are in no hurry to see them leave Aster House. There is something about having Claude in the house that seems to keep the rest of us calm and forces us to smile from time to time. I think I may begin to see what Jims has done for Rilla all these years.

I know how things must be at Ingleside, so I will not ask. I had a short note from Faith a week ago, from which I understood that she is well enough to write, but little else. Sylvia writes that Faith works night and day, as you might expect. I have suggested — gently — that Faith might come home where we can care for her, but such overtures go unacknowledged in her replies. From that, I gather that she has not given up hope.

Neither have I. The hints in your letters are subtle, but not so subtle that I have not seen them. I will tell you plainly: I plan to stay at Kingsport hospital for as long as they'll have me. I am not planning on coming home to practice in the Glen and will not revisit that possibility until something changes. Which it hasn't, Dad. Not even for the sake of practicality.

Give my love to Mother and Susan and Rilla and Jims. Have you had word from Shirley? If you have, please let us know how he is getting on — we have not had a letter from him in ages. Jerry reports that he has seen Carl, and that he is in tolerably good spirits, in spite of the eye. I hope they will send him home soon, for all our sakes.

Your loving daughter,

Di

* * *

Notes:

* _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 32

** _Anne of Ingleside_ , chapter 23 and 24. This is one of the few stories from AoI or RV in which Shirley plays an active role. He gets the back half of one compound sentence and the first half of another. But his name does in fact appear and he is the subject of three whole verbs!

***There were two women in the Dalhousie Medical School class of 1921; four in 1922; two in 1923. The class of 1910 included two women, but most other classes before 1920 had one or no women.

* * *

 


	44. Interlude: Prayers of Thanksgiving

Interlude:

_**Prayers of Thanksgiving** _

Westcliffe Eye and Ear Hospital, Folkestone, Kent, England

September 1918

(Carl)

* * *

There aren't any pockets in convalescent blues. I don't really know why not. I asked Sister Graeme once and she said that it made them easier to wash, and I guess she'd know, but still, that hardly seems enough of a reason to make us go without.

It would be a great comfort to have just a little breast pocket, that's for sure. But after I asked, Sister Graeme made me a little muslin pouch that I wear around my neck, under my shirt, and that serves well enough.

Other than the lack of pockets, I don't mind the convalescent blues so much. Sister Graeme says they bring out the color of my eye. Mine are a bit too large and make me feel like a child in Jerry's unhemmed hand-me-downs, with the sleeves falling down halfway to my knuckles. Not that I mind! I'd wear a potato sack if it meant I didn't have to go back to the trenches. Well, no danger of that now. I'm grateful.

In fact, I'd say I actually like the blues. I suppose I could stay in pajamas all the time, but I like to get dressed and sit by the window in the afternoons, just because I can. I haven't needed complete bed rest since my first week at Westcliffe, when my face was still so swollen I could hardly eat and my head too heavy to lift. I still get headaches, of course, but not as many, and the doctors say there don't seem to be any lasting effects from the concussion. That's a relief.

Sister Graeme says I'm very lucky; the fragment that hit me must have ricocheted elsewhere and already spent much of its speed. She's not wrong. If it had been a more direct hit, I'd have lost half my skull, not just the eye. But I was lucky. Sister Graeme says that the scars are forming nicely and that I'll only need the bandages another week or two. After that, I can have an eyepatch if I want one. It will take some getting used to, but  _one eye is enough to watch bugs with_.

The ward door clicks open and it's Corporal Lewiston with our mail. He's a friendly fellow, ginger-haired and chatty, but it is difficult to return his pleasantries when my guts are suddenly writhing with eels. There's usually something for me at mail call — Una and Rosemary see to that — and I hate to feel disappointed when my mail is only Glen news, because I appreciate every line they write me, really I do. But . . .

Corporal Lewiston spots me by the sunny window and hails me with a fistful of envelopes.

"Hiya, Meredith!" he grins. "Quite a few for you today."

I would chat, but I've spotted the red triangle on the top envelope under his thumb, the bright stamp that says "Passed by Censor" and is only affixed to military post. It's all I can do to keep myself leaping from my chair and snatching it from him. Luckily, Lewiston has other places to be, and leaves me to my letters.

I could tear open the envelope at once, like an overeager pup clawing for a scented treat, but no. The proper ceremonies must be observed. His own handwriting on the envelope: he is alive.  _Thank you, God_. The postmark, August 27: he received my last letter and responded within a day or two.  _Thank you, God_. The red triangle: whatever is in here got past censor #2236.  _Thank you, God_.

I close my eye in gratitude, and savor this exquisite feeling of calm. Sometimes it feels as if I live from one of these moments to the next, this blissful interlude between receiving his letter and reading it, holding it safe and real in my hand, with the pleasure of opening it still ahead of me. I delay, weighing it in my palm, tracing the edges with my fingertip, reading my own name in his hand.

* * *

 

I still remember the first letter he ever wrote me. Not even a letter, really, more of a note. It was my first day teaching at Harbour Head, and I stood in the empty schoolhouse at dawn, just staring at the bare desks. At that moment, I wasn't even praying that I would be a good teacher, I was just praying that I wouldn't do any irrevocable damage to the young minds so absurdly entrusted to me.

I pulled my testament from my satchel and right away I saw a bit of paper sticking out from between the pages. Precise black letters, clear and upright:  _You'll be brilliant. Tell me all about it on Saturday?_

I knew his handwriting, of course. How many school assignments had we worked over together in the Ingleside garret or resting our backs up against the dyke of the Methodist graveyard? How many of his essays had I proofread at Queen's while he shook his head patiently over my geometry proofs? But he he'd never written to me before. Why should he? We were so seldom apart.

No, that's not exactly right. We were apart my first year at Queen's, or it felt that way, even if we did see one another on weekends. We were only friends then, the year before swimming and kisses, but I was already doing my best not to think of him half as much as I did. It wasn't right. I shouldn't have been imagining him, not the way I did. I tried not to. I tried to focus on my studies and drank a lot of cold water and slept with my hands on top of the blankets. Nothing helped much.

I put that first note in my breast pocket and carried it there all week. It was a long week, meeting my scholars and taming my classroom and discovering how few ideals could survive their encounter with practical reality. But I don't think I told him much about all that on Saturday. At least it isn't the talking I remember.

Wait, that isn't quite true. I do remember that he called me "Mr. Meredith" once and I shoved him into the pond. I could still do that then, when he was only fifteen and slender as a reed. He rose out of the water drenched and laughing; that is one of the pictures I carried with me to Flanders. Whenever I needed to unsee what was in front of me at Courcelette or Vimy or Passchendaele, I could close my eyes and see him instead.

* * *

 

"Anything in your letters, Carl?"

Sister Graeme smiles sweetly over the tea tray in her hands. She shouldn't be bringing me tea, there are orderlies for that, but perhaps there had been an orderly and I had been too far away to notice. Sister Graeme sets the tray on the deep windowsill and leans against it for a moment, awaiting my answer.

"I haven't opened them yet," I say truthfully.

"Quite a few today," she says, nodding under her crisp, white veil.

I survey the small stack of letters I have not even bothered to examine yet. "Yes," I smile. "My family will have gotten the letter I sent when I arrived here, I suppose."

"You're lucky to have so many people who care about you."

"Yes. I am."

I think Sister Graeme is one of them. She always has a kind word for me, and I wonder whether she might have a younger brother or perhaps even a son somewhere at the front.

"I'll let you get back to them," she says, patting me on the shoulder. "But don't neglect your tea. And there's some stale bread on your tray, as well."

"Thank you, Sister."

When she leaves, I slide my finger under the envelope flap and ease it open. Just one sheet, as always.  _Dear Kit_  . . .

That's as far as I've gotten and I'm already chasing after breath. A new name. An endearment. Coming from him, that's a lot. I read the salutation over several times, savoring it, imagining how it might sound spoken aloud or murmured not loud at all.  _Kit_.  _Dear Kit_. I feel for the pouch around my neck and read on.

_I was very sorry to hear about your eye. But as sorry as I am over it, I am ten times gladder that you are out of the trenches and headed for home. I can't take down every German plane in the sky, though I am trying._

_I was thinking that it will be your birthday again soon enough. Happy birthday, in case I don't get a chance to tell you. When things are grim here, I sometimes thing of your birthday in the Glen, and how Rilla springing out of the dark frightened me worse than any Fokker flying out of the sun ever has. It was worth it, though._

It certainly was. I push away the tormenting lines about chances and Fokkers and his deadly work. Closing my eye, that birthday comes flooding back, the memory washing away worry in a torrent.

* * *

The night I turned seventeen was silver-bright, a shiver of autumn in the breeze off the harbor.

"Where are we going?" I asked as he led me away from our usual hideout among the reeds.

He took my hand and grinned. "On a moon-spree, of course."*

I had told him once that the harvest moon always felt like mine. I was only five when Mother died, but I remember the story of my birth in her voice, how the bronze harvest moon watched over us, marking a season for storing up riches against the winter. The year after she died, I looked to the gibbous moon on my birthday and could see only the sliver it lacked.

But it was at the apex of its fullness that night, lighting our way wherever it was we were going. Out from under the sheltering shadows of the valley, we dropped our linked hands and I followed half a step behind as he led me past the Four Winds light and to the rock shore beyond. I thought it was plenty far enough, but he picked his way over scree slopes and driftwood logs and I followed gamely not because I loved the chilly salt spray or the slick stones under my feet, but because I would have followed him anywhere.

When I had finally made up my mind to complain that really, did we have to spend all night hiking, he turned abruptly, seeming to disappear into the cliff face. I followed again, finding there a shallow cleft in the rock, tapering from an upper point to a pebbled floor just wide enough for two. I took my place beside him and unwrapped the parcel he produced from his haversack.

"It's a cake," I said, as if the scent of nutmeg and buttercrumb topping had not announced itself.

"I baked it," he said simply. "Happy birthday."

" _You_  baked it?" I asked, though he managed to surprise me often enough that I should not have been surprised.

He blinked back with that maddening expression of imperturbable calm layered over a secret laugh.

"I bake very well," he replied, as if every self-respecting halfback at Queen's had a flair for pastry.

"I'll be the judge of that," I grinned, cutting a fragrant slice.

He did, in fact, bake very well.

Later, his mouth cinnamon-warm, I joked that baking was the least of his secret talents.

"Not talent," he smirked. "Practice."

I was fairly certain he was wrong about that, but having neither sufficient experience nor sufficient breath to contradict him, I did not press the point. Aptitude or training hardly mattered as long as he didn't stop.

As the harvest moon slipped low over the sea, we leaned against the rock face, hands entwined. It is one of the moments I can still see perfectly when I close my eye, my moon laying out a luminous path to heaven and his spice cake reduced to crumbs and our feet stretched out before us, pointed off across the water toward some unknown shore.

"Do you think the war will last a whole year?" he asked.

I could only answer truthfully. "I don't know."

I squeezed his hand and said a prayer of gratitude that I was the one turning seventeen, not him. He'd be safe, no matter what the next harvest moon might bring.

* * *

"Any birds today, Meredith?"

I fold the unfinished letter and smile at Will Foster even though he can't see me. Gas-blind, the upper half of his face swathed in bandages under his cornsilk hair. His bed is beside the window and he likes to hear how the starlings are getting along.

"I'm just putting out the bread now." I narrate for his benefit, keeping my voice low so I don't startle the birds. "The kitchen must think I'm mad, asking for stale rusks. I'm opening the window. It's a bit cloudy today, but I don't think it will rain. The elm is starting to turn. The top leaves are going yellow and gold, but the underparts are still green. Oh, here she is! It's Two-Toed Sally first to the sill again. She's lovely and fat, all iridescent blues and greens and purples over her speckles. Do you have starlings in Toronto, Foster?"

"I'm not sure. I never noticed."

"They're not a native species, you know," I say, admiring the velvet midnight of Sally's plumage. "In Canada, I mean. Some daft Yank wanted to bring every bird mentioned by Shakespeare to North America. He released them all in Central Park in New York. Most of them died, but the starlings loved it and now they're a menace. They steal nests from native songbirds and eat up everything in sight."*

"What a senseless thing," Foster mused. He'd heard enough of my ramblings on the evils of invasive species to have a grudge against them himself, even if he'd never known an osprey from a oyster before. "It doesn't seem right that one man's whim should throw everything out of balance."

"No," I say, studying bright-eyed Sally as she pecks at the bread. "They're beautiful, though, these starlings. In their right place. I never saw one before I came here, except in pictures. And those don't capture them well. Pictures say they're black, but they're every color when the light hits them right."

"You don't have starlings on your Island?"

"We didn't," I reply. "Not when I was a kid, anyway. But I expect they'll have invaded the Glen by the time I get back."

"No keeping them out, is there?"

"No."

Two other, smaller birds have come to join bold Sally, pecking at the stale crumbs on the sill. One tips its glossy head in my direction, but hops away nervously when I extend a hand. The starlings are gorgeous, but they aren't as brave as our little chickadees at home, who will take peanuts and sunflower seeds from my hand, clutching my fingertips with tiny claws, the vibration of their wings humming as they entrust themselves to my benevolence.

"You have letters?" Foster asks.

"A pile of 'em," I say, sorting through the others for the first time. "Must have been a ship in from Kingsport. There's one from my father and Rosemary, one from Una of course, and our friend Mrs. Blythe, and one from Bruce . . ."

"Oh, read Bruce first!" Foster grins. "I don't suppose he'll offer any more delightfully honest descriptions of visiting ministers, will he?"

"Only one way to find out," I smile, slitting Bruce's ink-splotched envelope.

* * *

When the Glen news has lulled Foster into his afternoon nap, I shuffle back to the letter I didn't read aloud.

 _Are you really alright?_  he asks.  _You know you can tell me._

Can I? I hardly know what to say. That the birds here are strange, skittish things? That I'm grateful for Sister Graeme and Will Foster and letters from home, but that I miss him like a tide-stranded fish misses the sea? That every time I try to sleep I find myself pinned again under the crushing weight of that burning barn with Sergeant Donovan screaming just beyond my fingertips and flakes of fire raining down around me?

I could tell him that, though he hates it when I mention hell. Not because he fears it, but because I do. He never seems to fear anything. Not prison. Not hell. Not even hurtling through the heavens in a skiff of matchsticks and canvas strapped to a controlled explosion. How many times have I envied his unwavering confidence in his own sufficiency, his gift for being where he is and nowhere else? Unflappable.

At least, that's how I always thought of him. How else to explain the mastiff and his disregard for Section 202 and the calm in his kiss that long-ago summer? I thought he must never worry about anything.

I saw my mistake in Paris, the moment I stepped through the door with my bread and cheese and pears to find him undone. I had never seen him cry. Never. Had anyone? Maybe Susan, when he was small. But he stood before me agape, wreathed in cigarette smoke, his face as fragile as a blown eggshell.

Later, when he had showered and we had eaten, I wanted to explain what he had so clearly misunderstood. How could I make him understand that in giving himself to me, he had also given me back to myself? After two years of filth and terror, clenching my eyes shut so I could imagine myself back at the Glen Pond, he had made me glad to inhabit my own body again. I had never believed his Whitman that the soul is the body and the body is the soul, but he might convert me yet.

But he had spoken first, and for all his philosophy, the fear he named seemed so simple, so childlike, that I swelled with an incongruous sort of affection, the same as I had felt for the little tabby kitten he had saved so long ago.  _I thought that you had forgotten me._

The vow I gave him was sincere.  _I will never, ever forget you_. I had not known it needed to be spoken. It seemed impossible that he did not already know how constantly he filled my thoughts, that he was first in every prayer, foremost in every hope.

I suppose that's hypocritical. Surely I did not need to hear him say  _I love you_  to know it. Hadn't he told me a hundred ways already? Still, my heart leapt at his words and the scant inches between us were too much to bear. I would have crawled inside him if I could have, and been absorbed rather than parted.

We had only a day and a night after that, but I have lived in that day every since. He held my chin, our eyes locked fast, and for once we did not laugh. It was a fiercer joy that sealed those vows. Brimming with wine and wonder, I gave him back touch for touch what he had given me and found that somehow our debts only accumulated.

Just thinking it, my flesh begins to wake and I am suddenly aware of every touch. The convalescent blues falling over-long and rubbing the backs of my hands, the bandages snug over my forehead, the point of a tiny wing pricking my chest through the muslin pouch.

It's a risk, but I pull the little bag from beneath my shirt, silently tipping his wings into my hand, squeezing gently enough that they do not break, firmly enough that they leave their impression in my palm.

_Are you really alright? You know you can tell me. I would rather know plainly how things are with you than get a cheerful letter unless you really mean it. You don't have to write about it. But you can._

I wish he were here, or that we were at home together, or in Paris. Then I could tell him or not tell him, but he would know how things are with me either way. There are rumors that the war will be over soon, with the Huns demoralized and depleted and the Yanks fresh and fit and howling at their door. Maybe it's true this time. We couldn't be home in time for my birthday, but maybe we could make it in time for his. He'll be twenty.

Until then, he has asked for the truth. I'll give it as best I can at this distance. Rummaging in the drawer of my bedside table, I find paper, ink, envelope, and set up in the windowsill beside the ruin of Two-Toed Sally's crumbs. I rub the brooch under my thumb, imagining that perhaps he can feel it, wherever he is.

 _Dear Shirley,  
_ _Be assured that I don't need to be reminded of the night Rilla scared you — it is one of my fondest memories and I have revisited it often these past four years. I can only hope we'll both be home in time to celebrate your birthday next spring . . ._

I write of the hospital, the starlings, and Cricket left behind in France. It would be hard to explain about Cricket. About how it was very hard to be alone after Paris and that the tiny comfort of a warm little body in my pocket helped a bit. I leave that part out, along with my disappointment that the starlings refuse to touch me. It would be hard to explain, even to him. But I do put in the dreams and how hard it is to distinguish between the barn fire and Dante's inferno. He did ask for the truth.

When the letter is finished, I double-check my acrostic, feeling clever that I've made such a long message work. He started all that with YOUR Shirley, back when I couldn't be sure it hadn't been an accident. But there's no mistaking KISS Shirley. LOVE Shirley.

BY ANY NAME.  _Thomas_ ,  _Carl_ ,  _Kit_ , what does it matter? I'll answer to anything as long as he's the one calling.

"Still up, Carl?" Sister Graeme asks over my shoulder. "You really do need to let yourself rest."

Her words are too gentle to be a scolding and the truth is that I truly am tired.

I give her a genuine smile. "I'll go back to bed in a minute, Sister. I just wanted to finish writing this letter."

"Which you have done, evidently. Why don't you address the envelope and I'll see it's posted for you. Then you can get back to bed."

"Thank you, Sister."

I do as she says, then check to see that her back is turned. It takes only a moment to press a kiss to the unsealed flap.

Later, under the covers, I wonder whether writing of the dreams will banish them. Perhaps it will just make them bolder. But I must try to sleep in either case. I cuddle the muslin pouch to my chest and say my prayers, repeating them until I fall asleep:

_Merciful God, please protect Shirley and hold him always in the palm of your hand._

_Look down on all of us, especially the 87_ _th_ _and all the other boys still out on the line._

_Please protect Jem, wherever he is, and comfort Faith._

_Merciful God, please watch over all my family. Please guide Una and let her feel your love always. Please encourage Father in his ministry, and protect Jerry and Bruce and Rosemary._

_Please comfort all the Blythes and give them strength. Please bring Jem home to them._

_Please bless Sister Graeme and all the medical staff here at Westcliffe and shepherd them in their work. Please guard Will Foster and all the other wounded men and let them recover as best they can._

_Thank you for all your many mercies toward me. Thank you for my life and the love of my family. Thank you for sending me home.  
_

_Thank you for Shirley. Please let him come home to me._

* * *

Notes:

*In 1890, a New Yorker named Eugene Schieffelin implemented his strange scheme to import every species of bird mentioned in the works of Shakespeare to Central Park. The initial population of 60 starlings thrived beyond anyone's expectations and soon became a massively destructive invasive species, colonizing most of the North American continent.

* * *

 


	45. Interlude: Brigade Brothers

Interlude:

_**Brigade Brothers** _

somewhere in Germany

September 1918

(Jem)

* * *

"Come on, Blythe. Just a little farther. Gotta keep moving."

I open my eyes, and there's Sam, panting. He's half-carried me these last two miles, wading in the current of a shallow stream, hoping to disguise our trail. He even left me in the water once, leaning heavily on my walking stick while he dashed off to make a little diversionary path, then backtracked. Maybe the dogs will take the bait and waste an hour scouring the forest for us. Maybe not.

It doesn't matter. We've reached the river now, dark and rushing under a quarter moon. There's no way I can swim it. My leg is on fire from hip to knee, with bolts shooting up into my abdomen and scorching to the very tips of my toes. Useless. My left hand is no better, hanging inert at my side, clawed and stiff.

Last time, when they caught us, a soldier with hobnailed boots had lain my hand out flat against a rock and stepped on it, grinding his foot back and forth and back and forth until all the metacarpals popped one by one. When he released me, it was a ruin of splintered bone and macerated flesh, twitching as it dangled from my wrist. I spent my first week in solitary confinement setting a bones, fainting, setting another. No anesthesia, so I recited from  _Leidy's Anatomy,_  muttering under my breath.  _Pollex_  (that one was alright);  _digitus index_  (cracked, but straight);  _digitus impudicus_  (I'll dedicate that one to Hobnails forevermore);  _digitus cordis_  (a goddamn mess). I considered amputating the little finger and might have done, if I'd had a knife. God, what I would not have done for some of Dr. Parkman's morphine. What I had was my filthy undershirt and a piece of dense black bread that I moulded into a splint of sorts, letting it go stale around my fingers to keep them from curling in on themselves. I might starve, but I'd want the hand if I didn't.

Now it seems that I could have saved myself the trouble.

"I can't do it, Sam," I say, barely able to squeeze the words between my teeth as I collapse onto the bank. "Just leave me."

"Bullshit you can't," he spits, leaning down into my face. "You're the stubbornest son of a bitch on God's green earth and you  _will_ swim that river."

I try to rise and have to swallow a scream of pain that comes out as a grunt. I open and close my eyes hard several times, trying to clear my jittery vision, but to little effect. "It's no use. You've got to go on. Now, before they catch up."

"I'm not leaving you, Blythe."

"Yes, you are."

He'd like to argue with me, if only because he hates to lose. But he's not stupid.

"Well then, I'm coming back for you."

I would laugh if I had breath. "Go Sam. To Holland. To Blighty. To Canada."

He's done talking, but not done arguing. There's not much I can do to stop him when he seizes me by the shoulders and drags me up the slope, kicking leaves back over our tracks. Ten yards from the riverbank, there is a thick stand of blackthorn bramble, leafy and overgrown and menacing in the dark. Sam drags me under and deposits me in the thorn dense gloom beneath, patting down the branches as he backs away.

"Stay there," he says unnecessarily. "When I come back, I'll call for you. What's a bird they've got around here?"

"There's no need, Sam."

"How about a dove? The Huns must have some of them, mustn't they?"

He makes a gargling sound that's more grackle than dove and I smile in spite of everything. "Well, if their doves sound like that, no wonder they're militarists."

"You do it, then."

There was a time when I  _could mimic the call of any wild bird or beast in Four Winds_. It's been a long time, but I shut my eyes and breathe out, turning heart and brain and body toward  _dove_. My warbling coo has a few too many consonants hiding in its depths to fool a real dove, but it will do for humans.

"See now," Sam says, reaching down to ruffle my hair. "Can't let talent like that go to waste."

He can't really be serious about coming back for me. Not when he's got this chance.

"Just promise me something, Sam."

"'Course."

"You'll get word to Faith. And when you get home, you'll visit my parents and tell them how it was."

"No need for all that," he says, clearing his throat.

"Say it, Sam."

"There's no need."

"Please, Sam. Just say it so I know you have it in your mind."

"Alright." He takes a shuddering breath, then recites, "Faith Meredith Blythe. St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London, or else Glen St. Mary, Prince Edward Island. And Dr. Gilbert Blythe, also Glen St. Mary, PEI."

I lie back on the soft carpet of last year's leaves, satisfied.

"Now you say mine," he orders.

I have enough breath left to snort.

"Say it, Jem."

He never calls me that, never. It's always  _Blythe_  or  _Blockhead_  or sometimes  _You Goddamn Islander_. I'll humor him if it will make him go away sooner.

"Reverend Robert Osbourne, First Presbyterian Church, Hamilton, Ontario."

"And?"

"And Miss Blanche Garfield, Filsham Road, Hastings, who you should have married when you had the chance."

"That's the ticket."

"Think she waited for you?"

"She better."

"You only knew her a month."

"It was a hell of a month."

I can hear the grin in his voice and turn over on my side to get a last shadowed look at him. I reach out my sound hand. "Godspeed, Sam."

He crouches, but doesn't shake it. Instead, he reaches farther and grasps my arm, up near the elbow, clasping around the girth of my forearm so I can feel his pulse beating through my sleeve. I grip back, arm to arm, more than a handshake.

"I'll come back with help," he says.

"Don't. Please."

He stands and backs away, the stubborn set of his jaw telling me he has no intention of seeing sense, damn him. He salutes lazily. Never going to make captain with form like that. But he's up and away, pulling off his boots and strapping them to a log with his belt. Then he's into the river and kicking for the opposite shore, drifting with the current, around a bend and out of sight.

* * *

I owe Jerry an apology.

Three years ago (God, three years? More than that now.) after the first time we fought at Ypres, he got knocked stiff by a shell and spent the night in No Man's Land. He told me that he had seen Nan that night. Not imagined her. He swore he saw her laughing and standing by the spring in Rainbow Valley just as plain as day, and that's how he knew it was all over with him. I nodded and said I believed him, but I didn't really. He'd had a nasty concussion and it wasn't all that surprising that he'd hallucinate, but he swore up and down that she wasn't a mirage but an honest-to-God presence (of course, not even a goddamn war could make Jerry say "honest-to-God," bless him, but that was the gist of it).

I didn't believe him then, but I do now.

I can't see Faith, not in the deep, velvet black of this dismal night. But I can feel her. Warm, solid body laid out against mine, the curve of her head fitted into the hollow of my shoulder. Stranger still, I can smell her. Not just the wild roses of her hair, but that clear, golden scent of her skin and even a whiff of our peppermints. Call it a hallucination (it certainly is). But as long as she'll stay here with me til the end, I guess I don't much care.

* * *

The clerk at the hotel in Bexhill-on-Sea didn't even look at our marriage certificate. I slapped it on the counter when I asked for a room, but I guess he'd seen everything by then. I'm sure Faith must have given me some exasperated look, but honestly I don't remember because she was holding my hand in both of hers and I was accepting a key from the clerk and I couldn't stop grinning like a fool.

I don't remember much about the room either, except that it existed and it had a door and a bed (there may or may not have been other furnishings but they were of little consequence). What I do remember is carrying Faith over the threshold and cracking her head against the frame. Which, in my defense, she had me by the ears and was kissing me for all she was worth, so how was I supposed to see where I was going? But it's bad form to crack your wife's head against the doorjamb, and worse form to grin about it (even if you're only grinning because you just thought the words "my wife" for the tenth time in an hour and it hadn't gotten old yet and maybe never would).

She took her hair down out of the pins and asked me to check to see if her scalp was bleeding (it wasn't). But then her hair was running through my fingers, all warm and tawny-golden and smelling of rose-water. She shivered when I kissed her on the axis bone and kept on going toward her collar and I realized (for maybe the dozenth time) that we were really married at last.

Faith turned in my arms and held me with those amber eyes that make her look like a red-tailed hawk. She was so close, after all this time, and I found myself just studying her, measuring memory against reality. I had photographs of her of course, but those were mostly for showing to other people. They were too still. When I wanted her, I closed my eyes and imagined myself back in our rosebushes, with her breath coming fast and shallow against my neck and hands twisted in the placket of my shirt. She had said it would be a memory to look forward to, which sounded like nonsense at the time, but she was absolutely right.

But now I had a marriage certificate in my pocket and she had a gold band on her finger and everything was different. It was stupid to feel shy, but I did. How many times had I kissed her in the hollow of her throat, along the pulse behind her ear, on eyelids closed over pupils gone wide and dark? All those kisses had been promises of  _someday,_  but the next one wouldn't be. The next kiss wouldn't be an apology or an ending, but a whole new beginning. I felt the weight of it.

Something playful twitched at the corners of her mouth. She reached up and took my face in her hands and kissed me so softly that I might have imagined it. And then she was just Faith again and we were just us and everything was going to be alright.

Smiling, I asked, "Have you always been this short?"

She cocked her head to one side and looked up at me with such adorable indignation I just had to kiss the tip of her nose, even though it made her scowl.

"I'm not short," she said shortly. "I'm average height. You're just notably tall."

I settled my hands around her waist. "It's just that, when I remember you, I remember looking you in the eye."

"Eye-to-eye?"

"Yes."

Her eyebrows went all wiggle-shaped and she frowned. "You remember me being six feet tall?"

I laughed. "No, I guess not."

"We would have won a lot more basketball games," she said, hilarity twinkling in her eyes, though she nodded soberly.

"I suppose so. I just remember you . . . bigger somehow."

Without warning, she hooked a foot around my ankle and shoved me in the chest at the same time so that I sat down heavily on the bed. She came to stand between my knees and leaned in so that our foreheads touched and there was nothing in the world but her eyes on a level with mine.

"Better?"

"Much."

She kissed me then, and not the stopping sort of kiss.

Mouth soft and searching, breath hot and quick, and her fingers busy at my collar. She hesitated over the third button, caressing it, pushing it gently into my chest.

"It's all yours, Mrs. Blythe," I whispered, then let my eyes flutter shut as she popped it free.

* * *

I blinked away a shaft of morning light, entertaining the possibility that I might not be dead. I don't know much about heaven or hell, but I don't think either looks like a stable.

Someone bent over me, a man I didn't recognize, though I felt I should have. He was filthy, his khaki in tatters, some sort of soiled bandage wadded in the trapezoid muscle between neck and shoulder. It looked to be made of paper.

He brought a canteen to my lips and I sipped eagerly, the metallic tang of the water masking some duller flavor underneath that I consciously declined to parse.

"Morning, sunshine," he said, with easy familiarity.

I searched his features and felt the vaguest sense of recognition, but I couldn't come up with a name or even a place where I might know him from. God, did I have a head injury? He was grinning at me like I was supposed to be pleased to see him. I was, don't get me wrong, but only because he might have been able to explain what the hell was going on.

"I'm . . . alive?"

He laughed, offered me more water.

"Yeah, it's a big fuckin' mystery. Guess you're just too damn stubborn to die."

So I'd had a close shave, I guess. Probably could have figured that on my own. I tried to lift my head to look around, but I was weak as a baby and just as helpless.

"Where am I?"

He corked the canteen and propped it against my camp bed. "Sorry to break it to you, pal, but you're not in the Astor House Hotel or anything. The Huns are calling it a hospital, but it's a barn that smelled better when it was full of pigs."

"We're prisoners?" I sifted through vague memories. Arching flares. Barked orders. Slimy mud against my cheek.

"Yep. They brought you in oh, a week and a half, maybe two weeks ago. You already had a fever and have been in and out ever since."

A rumbling boxcar. Huns in our trenches! _Go, boys, go!_ A sledgehammer slamming into my thigh . . .

Abruptly, I tried to sit up, but was arrested by a bolt of pain so hot and sharp I thought I must know what a lightning strike feels like. I squeezed my eyes shut until they crackled with their own little pops of light, purple and yellow, behind the lids.

"Whoa, whoa," the man said, forcing me back down onto the straw tick. "Easy there, pal."

The bright pain subsided into a horrible ache. Another swig from the canteen rinsed the bile from my mouth. I had to know.

Slower this time, I propped myself on an elbow and looked at my thigh.

It's a goddamn mess.

I blinked again. Hard. Looked again.

More of those paper bandages (a lot more). One trouser leg had been cut away, but the other was still khaki, at least beneath the bloodstains. Quite a lot of blood, considering it's the uninjured side. I tried to wiggle my toes and gasped at the pain.

"How did I survive this long with  _that_?"

The man shrugged. "Like I said, it's a mystery. There are at least a thousand men in this place and exactly four doctors. Russian prisoners. They don't speak a word of English and their supplies are rubbish. But they do what they can when someone gets their attention."

My leg was a disaster, but it had been treated. There was a splint. It seemed to have been cleaned at some point. The bandages had been changed, maybe not as recently as I would have liked, but within the last couple of days at least.

"You got their attention for me?"

"Yeah, well, you owe me a pack of cigarettes. It was my last one."

I stared. "Why?"

He grinned again and slapped the patch on my shoulder, a green half-circle over a red rectangle.

"You're Second Battalion." He tapped his own shoulder and I noticed the similar patch there, except that his green circle is whole. "I'm First Battalion. We're brigade brothers."

I looked him over, trying to place him. Tall, maybe as tall as me, though it was hard to tell. Eyes so dark as to be featureless and fine brown hair cut short, but sticking up at odd angles. He had freckles over the bridge of his nose and when he grinned again, it came to me.

"I remember you! You beat me in the pole pillow fight after the brigade sports meet in . . .  _God_  . . . 1915?"

"Sure did. Ducked you good."

"You have a name, brigade brother?"

"I'm Osbourne. Lieutenant Sam Osbourne."

* * *

Another morning and I'm still alive (another mystery). My limbs are leaden, my hand inert, and there aren't anymore roses, only the blackthorn bush above me and the rushing of the river in its bed. Somewhere, a dove coos, but badly.

I shimmy to the edge of my shelter, unbelieving, peering out toward the river. Sam didn't really come back did he?

He did. He brought a boat. A little clinker-built dinghy (where did he get it?) that he pulls up onto the pebbles and stashes under a bit of overhanging bank.

Something hopeful lurches to life in my chest. I could get to it. I really could.

Sam climbs up the slope from the river and stands in the shade of the trees. He coos again, seeming to know that he's close, but not knowing exactly where he left me. Everything looks different in daylight. It's difficult to coo back because I'm grinning and doves have a quieter sort of joy. I relax my throat, allowing myself to think for one single second that I may be on my way home to Faith after all.

I coo.

Sam turns his head, but not toward me. He's heard something alright. His body tenses, crouches, and then he begins to run.

I hear them now, too. Shouting. Blundering. Dogs.

Instinct drives me to shrink back under the blackthorn, though it's foolish. Nothing will stop those dogs if they catch my scent (they will; it's their job).

Sam sprints flat-out, but the Dobermanns are on him before he reaches the slope, not twenty-five yards from where I lie concealed. One at his throat and another at his knees and I can't watch this.

But there's a whistle and a shout and the dogs leave him on the ground, still alive.

There are two German soldiers on foot and an officer on horseback. One of the men (a kid really, with blonde peach fuzz and narrow shoulders, can't be more than fifteen) holds the dogs' empty leashes and congratulates them, offering them treats from a pouch at his belt. The other man puts a knee in Sam's back and delivers a couple of thunderous blows. I recognize him . . . well, I recognize his boots. Hobnailed from heel to toe.

When he's sure Sam is subdued, the Hun pulls him to his feet and frogmarches him to the officer. He keeps a bayonet pointed in the small of Sam's back, the tip cutting through his jacket.

When the officer speaks, I recognize him, too: Hauptmann Lorenz. I guess I should be encouraged that they've sent an officer who's known for speaking some English, rather than one who's known as a marksman.

"Your comrade," Lorenz demands. "Where is he?"

My heart must be audible to them, pounding away as it is. I lie perfectly still, knowing full well that concealment is nothing to those Dobermanns.

"Sorry, fellas, you must have run right past him," Sam says, spitting a gob of blood onto the ground. "He didn't make it more than two miles."

"We did not see him," Lorenz says, his voice clipped and precise.

"I left him under a bush by the stream, then doubled back to make a new trail away from him. Looks like it worked."

Lorenz turns to his men. "Der andere Gefangene hatte eine Verletzung am Oberschenkel. Ist das korrekt?"

"Ja, Herr Hauptmann."

With a nod, Lorenz gives Sam an order. "You will lead us to him."

"I will not."

I wince as Hobnails sinks a fist into Sam's belly. He doubles over, spluttering, but rights himself.

Should I give myself up? Crawl out of this bush and let them take us back to the compound? I doubt I'd make it, but at least they wouldn't have to beat Sam into giving me up. I close my eyes for just a moment, one last moment of stillness before I hoist myself up through the thorns.

Sudden barking, yelling, commotion, a shriek. What happened?

I open my eyes to see a scuffle I can't quite decipher until the morning sun glints on metal and Sam plunges Hobnails's bayonet into Lorenz's gut. Blood blossoms. Lorenz slumps as the horse rears away from the sudden movement. As Lorenz falls, Sam reaches for his sidearm.

There's a crack, but not gunfire. Sam goes down under the butt of Hobnails's rifle. It's all I can do to keep from screaming as the Hun presses the barrel to Sam's temple.

He fires.

Blood floods my own mouth.

The two soldiers hurry and shout at one another, dragging Lorenz from the frightened horse and tearing open his jacket. The dogs yelp and whine, prancing back and forth (not helping the horse much), but I only have eyes for Sam. He lies face-down in a pool of spreading black.

"Is er tot?" the young dog-handler asks Hobnails.

 _Tot_. I know that word. He must be dead, of course. Can't they see all that blood?

But they don't mean Sam.

"Nein. Er atmet. Herr Hauptmann, können Sie mich hören?"

Lorenz groans and moves a little.

"Wir müssen ihn sofort zum Stabsarzt bringen!"

"Was ist mit dem Gefangenen?"

Hobnails retrieves Lorenz's pistol from the ground where it fell. Point-blank, he empties the magazine into Sam, the body jerking with every impact.

"Er ist tot."

"Was ist mit dem anderen?"

"Der ist wahrscheinlich auch längst tot."

They argue back and forth until Lorenz moans again and settles things. I can't get a good look at his wound from here, but there's enough blood that it seems a tossup whether he'll make it back to camp at all.

There's no way Lorenz can ride on his own, so Hobnails mounts the horse and pulls his commander into the saddle in front of him. The horse doesn't like that at all and for one foolish moment I'm afraid that the animal will step on Sam. As if it matters.

Then they're off, with Peachfuzz and his dogs jogging to keep up, back the way they came. The quiet forest closes around them, swallowing even their sounds.

I'm lightheaded, my fingers sunk deep in the litterfall. Consciously, I breathe, only to catch the bright, hot tang of blood on the breeze.

Hand stiff, leg stiff, I claw my way out of my shelter. I clutch my crutch, dragging a deep furrow in the leaves until I reach his side.

There's no need to check for a pulse. Not with his head caved in like that. But I check anyway.

Why did you do it, you stupid bastard? Why did you come back? Why did you go for the bayonet? Why did you save me in the first place, when you could have been better off alone?

For one dizzy moment, I imagine myself lying down beside his body and never getting up. It wouldn't take long, not starved and exhausted as I am. There's a good chance I might not last another night exposed.

But I can't. For one thing, there's Faith. She'd never forgive me (though how would she know I'd given up? She would, somehow.). For another, there's Miss Blanche and Rev. Osbourne. We gave one another burdens to carry and I'll be damned if I'll let him down now. That settles it, I suppose. If I'm going to die, it's got to be after I've passed on word of Sam and what he did for me these past few months. I guess that means Holland, though the  _how_  of that is as much a mystery as anything.

But first, I need to dig a grave. Easier said than done. I have a spoon and a mess tin and one good hand, but I'd dig it a thimbleful at a time if I thought I could last that long. I can't leave him unburied, to be picked apart by crows, scattered by dogs or pigs. He deserves better. Scanning the riverbank, I conjure the idea of some sort of cairn, but I'll never be able to carry enough rocks up the slope.

The slope. He hid the boat under an overhanging bit of bank. Maybe . . .

I ease my way down the declivity to the river, bracing myself with my stick. Yes, the boat is drawn up under a crevice where the roots of a fallen tree have kept the soil from collapsing onto the encroaching beach below. It will make a poor grave; like as not, his bones will be washed downriver in the next spring floods. But it's something. It's respectful. And it's all I can manage.

More than I can manage, I think, as I pull Sam down the slope toward the little hollow. I drag the boat out into the open and place Sam as far back under the roots as possible. I arrange him as best I can, arms folded over his chest, his handkerchief spread over the ruin of his face.

A prayer should come to me, but the only thing I can think is that he shouldn't have died. He should be halfway to Amsterdam by now, stubborn goddamn idiot. He should be alive and I should be dead at least twice over and would be if not for him. With my stick, I pull the rocks and dirt down over him, a sprinkle of protection, then a miniature avalanche as a bit of bank gives way and slides over his body. I bring more rocks and pile them on top, as many as I can manage, knowing it's nowhere near enough. But my fingers are raw and bleeding now and my leg is dragging and I barely have the strength to stand propped against my stick.

I have to say something.

"Well, I guess you've been to enough funerals as a minister's kid," I say. "Jerry would know what to do. He'd have some scripture about laying down your life for a friend. Walter, too. He could have prayed you a bully prayer. But I guess you're stuck with me."

I pause because there's nothing I can say that will make this right. He shouldn't have been here, none of us should, and now he's dead and there's nothing to say about that.

"I'll find your father," I say because I will, if I can manage to go on breathing long enough. "And Miss Blanche. I'll write to her if I can't get back to Bexhill."

From somewhere in the woods, a dove coos (a real one). I look but can't see it, so I coo back. It answers me, hesitant at first, but with increasing fluency. I feel absurdly grateful that I won't be leaving him utterly alone.

"Goodbye, Sam."

I'm sure I'll faint, but somehow I manhandle the boat into the water and collapse over the gunwale. With my stick, I push off from the bank, poling til I can't reach the bottom anymore. Then I lie back in the bilges of this fragile little craft, thinking absurdly of the old story Mum tells of Avonlea and Camelot and other sorts of make-believe. The current lifts me and away I go, wherever it takes me.


	46. Word from Jem

**Word from Jem**

* * *

MARITIME TELEGRAM COMPANY  
VIA CHARLOTTETOWN  
FROM AMSTERDAM SEPTEMBER 24 1918

DR GILBERT BLYTHE  
GLEN ST MARY PEI

JUST ARRIVED. ESCAPED FROM GERMANY. QUITE WELL. WRITING. JAMES BLYTHE*

* * *

24 September 1918

Somewhere in Holland

Hi, Faith.

I guess you'll be pretty surprised to receive this letter. Turns out I'm not dead. I'm a bit surprised myself.

I imagine you were probably a bit worried about me and I'm sorry for scaring you. I did write, but I guess you never got the letters, or if you did, I never got your replies.

I don't particularly want to heap details on you, but I expect you'll be curious about where I've been these past several months.

One night last spring, there was a little trench raid. Not even part of a real battle — just one of those everyday incidents the papers don't even bother to report (who would read about them?). I wish I could give you an account of it, but the truth is that I was shot in the thigh and lost rather a lot of blood and don't remember it very clearly.

I know the Huns picked me up and took me prisoner, but the wound was pretty bad and got infected and I'm still not really sure how I survived it. I was in a fever for several weeks and when I was lucid I couldn't think about much except wishing I had kept back a little of Dr. Parkman's morphine for myself, I tell you that.

I was in a hospital, but it was a very bad place. No staff at all except four Russian doctors for a thousand men and no nurses at all. The Huns have no medical supplies, or if they do, they aren't wasting them on prisoners. I remember the stench of soiled linens and bandages made of paper. It was an awful place and I'm sure many of our men died from simple neglect when the most basic care might have saved them.**

I certainly wouldn't have survived without help. But there was another Canadian officer there — Lt. Sam Osbourne of Hamilton, Ontario (His father's name is Rev. Robert Osbourne. I am writing this down in case I don't get the chance to tell them. If I don't, you must write to them, Faith, and tell them. I will try to write to them soon. But just in case. Somebody else has to know.). Anyway, Sam took care of me and made sure I took a little water even if I couldn't eat and I'd have been dead ten times over without him. I didn't even know him — he was in the 3rd Battalion, which is the same brigade as the 2nd, but I had only seen him once before. But he saw my battalion patch on my sleeve and took care of me for weeks and weeks before I ever said a coherent word to him. He saved my life, plain and simple. Then and after.

One day, I opened my eyes and knew that the fever had broken. I wrote to you and to my parents straight away — wrote you as often as I could, but never got any reply. The Huns let us write two letters a month and a postcard on Sundays and I wrote them all once I was able, but I don't know if anything got through to you.

Once the fever broke, they sent me to a prison camp, even though my leg was still in bad shape. I was able to eat a little and get a bit stronger. It was difficult — the food there was putrid and most of the men who had been there longer survived on the parcels they got from home and from the Red Cross. Well, I didn't want to stick around long enough for you to have time to send me anything.

Sam and I tried to escape in late July, but it was too soon. I wasn't strong enough and we didn't make it very far. They dragged us back to camp and that was extremely rough for a while, though I will spare you the details. But it was our duty as officers to try to escape. I couldn't write anymore — my privileges were revoked. But when we got out of solitary confinement, Sam and I were right back at it.

About a week ago, we tried again. Sam was so brave, Faith. I would not be here without him. He could have left me behind and made it out himself, but he didn't. I can't write about it now.

Anyway, I got to Holland. I'm here now, safe, and in a hospital. A real one, not a filthy, rancid pen.

Faith, I have to tell you, there were a lot of times when I wanted to give up. I could get mushy and say that the thing that sustained me was my love for you, but, in truth, it was the fear that you would hate me forever if I gave in to the squalor and misery. You deserve better than a quitter and if I was going to be worthy of you, by God, I was not going to quit.

The first night I was in the hospital here, they got a hospital chaplain who spoke English to come see me. He asked me what kept me going when I was in prison. I was half delirious — I understood his question, but all I managed to say was "Faith."

Well, you never saw a chaplain grin so wide. The man turned right around and repeated the whole thing to the doctor and in five minutes flat it was all up and down the ward. That old chaplain was just pleased as punch. I didn't have the heart or the energy to correct him, and couldn't have set the others straight anyway, so I didn't. I'll bet he goes on telling that story at least once a week for the rest of his born days.

Now I must ask something of you and I know it will vex you terribly. But really, Faith, and I am being serious here: please don't try to come see me. For one thing, I like to think of you nice and safe on land, not out on the water. For another, I'm not looking my best at the moment and want to be nice and presentable before I receive any lady callers. They are going to transfer me to a hospital in England soon. When I'm feeling a bit better, I will write and tell you where I am.

I love you. That's all there is.

Jem

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

* * *

Notes:

* _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 32, "Word from Jem"

**British officers who escaped captivity or were otherwise repatriated were required to give official interviews about their imprisonment when they returned to the UK. If you are ever in London, you can read through these interviews at the UK National Archives (their call number is WO 161/96). Though some of the ex-POWs reported punishments (especially for escape attempts), their chief complaints were medical neglect and inadequate food. At the end of the war, Germany was running low on all essentials. Many of the ex-POWs reported awful conditions in the hospitals (many gave lists of other POWs who died of neglect from survivable wounds) — not active cruelty, but extreme understaffing and lack of proper care. Jem's account here is a composite of the accounts I read in the Archives, particularly those by Captain Harold Parker White, Tank Corps (captured April 25, 1918) and Lt. G.A. Oswald, 6th Northumberland Fusiliers (captured March 24, 1918).


	47. No Power on Earth

**No Power On Earth**

* * *

28 September 1918

St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London

Jem,

You inform me of the wound to your thigh, but you neglect to mention the wound to your head that is the only possible explanation for your addled wits. There is no power on earth that could stop me coming to you, with the single exception of your own stubborn stupidity.

Fear not — Devonshire House has supplied me with a list of every military hospital in England and I am prepared to contact each and every one of them in turn until I have ascertained your whereabouts.

Of course, you could save me the trouble by sending the details of your transfer immediately.

Jem. You are alive. I can't realize it.

I have no words for this.

Except these: please, Jem. Please let me come to you. I will beg, borrow, or steal a pass. I will break my contract. I will search each hospital on foot.

The choice is yours. You may inform me of your transfer as soon as you have details or you may expect desperate measures.

I thought I loved you before but I can't even tell you now.

Your

Faith

* * *

3 October 1918

Amsterdam, Holland

Please, Faith. You don't understand. I was in a prison camp for months. And I wasn't exactly in fine fettle when I went in.

I don't want you to see me like this. You'd never be able to forget it and I'd always know that you could close your eyes at any time and see this instead of what's right in front of you.

You can keep writing to me here until I am transferred. But please don't try to find me. I'm getting better. I've gained three pounds already.

I love you to pieces. I will send for you when I am in England and in better shape. But not yet, Faith. Please.

Jem

* * *

9 October 1918

St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London

You absolutely infuriating man!

While I appreciate your protective instincts, your attempts to soothe me are a spectacular failure. Nothing I could see would be worse than what your vague letters conjure.

You forget that I have been nursing here for a year and a half. I have seen wounded men. I have seen gas attack patients. I have seen prisoners of war. I have enough experience that I can see you all too clearly, have already imagined you in the worst possible condition. I have already suffered all that, only without the comfort of actually seeing you alive.

Please, Jem. Can't you understand that I need to touch you? To know for certain that you are really breathing? To realize that this isn't some hectic fantasy hatched out of my desperation?

I have spoken with some of the logistics staff here and they have promised to help me determine which ports ships from Holland might use and which hospitals are accepting new patients at the moment. This will narrow my list considerably and make it that much easier to find you.

If I did not love you so much, I would certainly kill you on sight.

Love,

Faith

* * *

13 October 1918

Amsterdam, Holland

My own Faith,

I'm being transferred to the Royal Victoria Hospital in Netley. I should arrive sometime around the time you receive this letter. I don't expect that I'm much to look at yet, but I hope you might come to see me anyway.

Your own

Jem

XXX

* * *

20 October 1918

Royal Victoria Hospital, Netley, Hampshire, England

Dear Dr. and Mrs. Blythe,

I am sitting at Jem's bedside right this very moment. He is asleep and resting comfortably. Let me assure you from the first: he is recovering well, and will be on his way home before you know it.

I know that you will want to know of his condition, both physical and otherwise.

The most pressing physical issues are the wound in his thigh and his weight. The wound was a bad one and did not heal very well, but it is no longer life-threatening. The surgeons here hope to perform an operation soon to see if they can't set it right. It has been a long time since he was wounded, so they are not certain of success, but the surgeon told me that he hopes that they will be able to repair the damage enough that Jem will be able to walk comfortably and with as little limp as possible.

In terms of his weight, he is gaining steadily and is quite pleased that he has doctor's orders to eat anything he can stomach. You might send a care package, though not anything that is too rich. Gingerbread would be all right — you know how he loves gingerbread.

As for his spirits, I am happy to report that he is doing very well. I have two weeks of leave and have put in for a permanent transfer to Netley. There is certainly enough need for nurses here, so I am hopeful that my transfer will be approved.

Jem sends all his love to everyone at home. Really, he is doing well. He is alive. He is healing. I will send updates as often as I can. He may be here a while recovering, but he will come home.

Give my love to all the family.

Love,

Faith Meredith

* * *

20 October 1918

Royal Victoria Hospital, Netley, Hampshire, England

Dear Una,

Please do not share this letter with anyone. I have already written to the Blythes, hopefully in a way that will reassure everyone. But I needed to write to you as well.

I am with Jem. Right with him, in fact — I'm writing this letter on a book balanced on his bed. He's snoring dreadfully and it is the most beautiful sound in the world. Jem is alive. It seems that any comment beyond that should be superfluous.

But oh, Una, I am so scared. I must confess to someone. Forgive me for laying this at your feet, but I don't know where else to turn.

When I received Jem's letter, I was so astounded I did not know how to feel. If someone had suddenly given me a thousand yoke of oxen, I could not have been more overawed. What did Job feel when his blessings were restored?

When Jem wrote — ALIVE! — Una, I cannot tell you how desperate I was to see him. But I was afraid, too. I have treated other prisoners of war. I know that they have been starved and exposed and hurt in any number of horrible ways. Thank God for that promotion, Una — captured officers are not forced to dig trenches or work in mines with no proper clothing or equipment as the ORs are.

It is still bad enough. The Germans are struggling to feed their own men, never mind prisoners. And Jem had been wounded and was so terribly sick for so long. How he survived a raging infection in those conditions I'll never know. It surpasses implausibility and lands squarely in the realm of the miraculous.

Knowing that, I steeled myself for the worst. Even though Jem had a few weeks in Holland to begin gaining weight and healing, I knew how it might be with him. I asked myself what you would do, and prayed for courage — both my kind and yours.

Una, it was still shocking. I didn't think I could be shocked, but I was and I feel wretched over it. He has lost so much weight — you wouldn't recognize him at all. I nearly didn't. His head is shaved for hygiene and the wound in his leg — well, I will not describe it to you. It did not heal well and the fact that he can walk at all is another certifiable miracle. He has a few smaller injuries, too, and some of them — I haven't worked up the courage to ask him about some of them.

He is getting better. They are feeding him well and he's going to have surgery to try to repair some of the damage to his leg just as soon as he is strong enough to stand it. I don't know whether it will do any good, but the surgeons told Jem there's a chance of recovering most of his mobility, and of course he jumped at the chance.

I have some leave and am doing all I can to get a permanent transfer to Netley. I do not think I can get it, though. I had an awful time getting any leave at all — the influenza is terrible in London and the staff at St. Mary's is stretched very thin. In the end, I was desperate and had to show the Matron my marriage certificate. She was not pleased at all.

I am considering breaking my contract, but Jem insists that he is alright and that my own patients need me. That is true enough, though he does not seem to know about the influenza and I am certainly not going to tell him. Not now, when he needs rest.

Amazingly, Jem is in good spirits, or at least putting up a good show. Di always said Jem would joke at his own funeral and I can tell you now that I have seen it. It is wonderful and gruesome and heartbreaking.

I feel a right coward for admitting how upset I am at seeing him this way. Jem is alive. He is getting better. God has given him back to me and the joy of it is nearly unbearable. Never fear — I won't ever let him see me shrink, and that you may tie to, as Susan would say. I promised to put my trust in God and so I will.

But oh, Una, how I wish I could have a good, honest cry under the covers with you right now. I dare not have one here. Even at night, I don't think I can indulge — I fear I might never stop. Don't misunderstand me — I am so full of gratitude I fear my heart may burst. Jem is alive. I have to keep saying it to myself because I am still trying to realize it. You were right and I am so thankful.

Forgive me, Una, for pouring this out on you. I never said any of this to any of the Blythes — only assured them that Jem is recovering. But I had to tell someone. Pray for me, that I may have strength enough to help him.

Love,

Faith

P.S. I am not going to name any of my daughters Kerenhappuch, but Jemima might do.*

* * *

Notes:

*The three daughters born to Job after his blessings were restored were Jemima, Kezia, and Kerenhappuch.

* * *

 


	48. On Heroes

Interlude:

_**On Heroes** _

above Cambrai, France

October 1918

(Shirley)

* * *

I will die in approximately ninety seconds. My machine is a wreck, crushed by the midair collision that has already sent one Hun machine in a nose dive to oblivion. My engine's still sputtering along, but too many things are broken, rudder and wing and the propellor wobbling drunkenly. Gravity will pull me home to earth, faster and faster, until the ground opens to accept the mass of blood and bone and kinetic energy that I will impart to it. There will be another pockmark in the mud and I will be gone from all this.

I suppose I should be afraid. After all, I am only ninety seconds — or eighty seconds, rather — from finding out which of us was right about hell. But no, there is no lurch of panic, no heavy breathing or gritted teeth. Instead, I feel weightless, like a billowing sail on the high sea of heaven.

There's an emotion there, for sure, and I feel around for its name. Certainly not dread. Not even resignation. I'm pretty sure it's  _relief_.

* * *

An hour ago, we went out hunting over the lines. Streamers flying from my rudder and wings marked me as the leader, though there were only three aeroplanes in my flight. Fly light, fly fast. We soared high and higher, where the thin air is too cold and poor to breathe. That's our advantage: our S.E.5as can fly higher than any Hun machine, so we circle above and dive down on them like osprey fishing the shallows.

We were lucky, at first. I spotted a lone triplane, limping home from some other fight, and waggled my wings to tell Corcoran and Russell that we'd all go in together. I could have shot him down myself on the first pass, but better to give Russell the chance to build his confidence. I dove at the German, turning him directly into Russell's merciless burst. That made four victories for Russell. One more and I'd have to buy him a drink.

We climbed again to altitude with plenty of fuel. Far below, the trenches of Picardy were not scars so much as stitched wounds, jagged and black, with the sutures sticking out at unnatural angles. As if the doctor had done his best, but really, a wound like that was never going to heal cleanly and you couldn't expect much.

It was a quiet patrol. We crisscrossed the lines, back and forth, until my fuel gauge dipped below half and I began to think of turning for home. Better to return to the aerodrome, rest, try again tomorrow, than to get caught in a fight with no reserves.

Just then, movement below caught my eye and for a wild moment I thought it was a skein of geese, dark specks moving against the direction of the wind. The German Jastas have taken to flying in huge formations, fifteen or twenty or more all together. There's nothing we can do against those odds, so we hide out in the ether where even the Fokker D.VIIs can't catch us. But these Huns are in pursuit of something, another RAF flight: four machines, maybe a bomber and its escort. They're too far away for me to hear their guns over my own engine, but they're peeling off now and spraying tracers, dipping and wheeling around and past one another.

They'll never see us coming.

Another wing-waggle and Corcoran and Russell follow me toward the fray, coming in from above and oblique. In a fight, you can't see anything but what's in front of you. Certainly not unexpected reinforcements dropping down from the heavens.

Screaming down in a nearly vertical dive. Rushing wind, a few stray tracers, bursts of machine gun fire near enough now. Pick a target. A Fokker chasing that two-seater round and round in circles; his mind will be occupied. I fall in behind and when the two-seater banks, I burst and burst and and burst again and am rewarded with streamers of black smoke. The Hun lurches, then begins to sag downward and soon he is in freefall, spinning. I'd follow him down to make sure — they do fake injuries by diving sometimes — but that smoke is pretty nasty looking and there's other work to do here.

If he stays down, he's my thirty-third kill.

Not that I've only killed thirty-three men, of course. I've shot down some two-seaters and an observation balloon, though the balloon boys have parachutes, lucky bastards, and may have gotten out with their skins intact. There are also the strafing runs, though those don't count. There's no glory in watching infantrymen cower, scurrying for shelter like rats as I murder them. The RAF only counts the other airmen, as if we are the only ones who matter.

We aren't.

* * *

Ten months ago, in Paris, December dawned in pale gray streaks that crept around the edges of the drapes. I counted his breaths as he slumbered, serene in the curve of my arm. Perhaps it was not dawn after all, but merely the reflection of the moon.

When we could delay no longer, I kissed him awake and watched grim recollection chase away the initial flash of joy that lit his eyes. I folded him close, faces buried in one another's shoulders as we stole a few more heartbeats.

We dressed one another from the skin out. Drawers, undershirts, socks, shirts, trousers, tunics, belts, boots. He worked my buttons without ever looking away from my face. When I had finished wrapping his puttees, he offered me the cord with his identity discs so that I might slip them back around his neck. Two tags, stamped with his regimental number and TC MEREDITH PRES CDN. The red circle is detachable, for reporting a casualty to battalion headquarters; the green octagon stays with the body.

I declined.

Instead, I warmed the gold enameled wings between my palms and pinned them to the inside of his breast pocket.

"That's good," he said. "I won't worry about losing it if the clasp comes undone."

"Good," I answered. "I don't want you to worry."

* * *

Two minutes ago, I turned back toward the swooping D.VIIs as number thirty-three fell away, and saw immediately that one of our S.E.5as was in trouble. Maybe Russell, maybe Corcoran, maybe one from the other flight, who knows. But he had two Huns on his tail and they had him dead to rights.

Aerial combat is a geometry problem. Fixed points; oblique planes; accounting for the way gravity distorts speed in the climb and in the dive. Two opposing machines can chase one another round and round until their fuel runs out and never get in one another's range, but two against one and all the attackers have to do is assign one to hold you down while the other punches.

Full throttle, aiming not where they were but where I hoped they would be soon, I streaked across open air and came in from below, firing into the Huns' bellies. A good shot, a very good shot, and flames erupted from one of the fuel tanks. A terrific ball of fire tore a black, glowing hole in number thirty-four.

But I miscalculated. Flew too close. That Fokker, hit and flailing, tumbling at me, coming fast. Not shooting; smashing. I threw my machine hard over, but no use; a horrible, bone-jarring crunch and his burning wings flaked all around me. Acrid smoke seared my throat, his or mine, no way to tell. A piece of flaming wreckage plastered against my windshield, black and orange and alive with macabre delight. The Fokker burning, falling, tumbling end over end, and out of sight because I was also spinning and couldn't seem to pull out of it.

* * *

Four years ago, we sat together in the study at the manse on a rainy Saturday, home from Queen's and from Harbour Head, with a roaring fire in the grate and the whole house deserted. We lounged either end of the old plush sofa, with our feet tucked up together in the middle, calves and knees mingled as we read in contented silence.

He sighed over the top of his book and I asked what he was reading.

"Thomas Carlyle.  _On Heroes_."

"For school?"

"I was just curious."

"The name?"

"Well, obviously it means something to Father," he said, shutting the cover. "I thought I should find out if it means something to me, too."

"And?"

He turned to an early page and read, " _The history of the world is but the biography of Great Men_."

I grimaced. "Great men? Like who?"

He chewed his lip, mumbled, "Like Dante."*

"Dante? Like Dante's  _Inferno_?"

"The very same."

"Never read it," I said, hoping that would be the end.

He pulled his feet back, leaving cold patches where they had rested on my thighs. Padding over to the bookcase, he searched among volumes shoved higgledy-piggledy and sideways among the ruins of once-neat rows. It took a few minutes, but he found what he was looking for.

"It's a tour of hell," he said, riffling the pages. "Nine circles, each for a different type of sin."

"You don't have to read that," I said, sitting up, wary.

He waved me off and turned the pages purposefully. Finding what he wanted, he spoke quietly, but with grim determination. "Here it is. The Seventh Circle. The Circle of the Violent."

I might have laughed if there had been any lightness to him. Instead, he was sodden, as dreary as the gray rain rippling down the windowpanes. "Carl. Stop. The Violent? You can't even swat a mosquito."

"No," he whispered. "That would be Violence Against Our Neighbors, for warmongers and murderers. There's also Violence Against Ourselves for suicides and dissolutes . . ."

"Carl . . ."

"No, that's not me either. I'm the last: Violence Against God." He cleared his throat and read,

" _Violence can be done the Deity . . ._  
_By disdaining Nature and her bounty._  
_And for this reason doth the smallest round_  
_Seal with its signet Sodom and Cahors,  
__All those who hate God with all their hearts . . ._ "**

"Stop."

"Don't you want to hear the punishment?" he asked, voice cracking. " _O'er all the sand-waste, with a gradual fall, were raining down dilated flakes of fire_  . . ."

"Stop it." I was impatient and he looked up sharply at my sharper tone. I wanted to snatch the volume from his hand and feed it to the flames. "It's just a poem, Carl," I said. "It's not even the Bible. It's just a poem. It isn't real."

"Just a poem?" he said, nodding toward the green-bound Whitman in my own lap. "What's all that then, other than poems?"

I spread my hands protectively over the open pages of  _Leaves of Grass_ , that companion that  _had been working a revolution within me_  since the first hour I spent  _poring, pausing, wondering, knowing that I intended to go on reading it_.*** I didn't have it memorized, not yet, but I found that I had begun to think in its cadences.

The dark blue eyes, observant as ever, did not miss the meaning in my gesture. "I'm sure I've heard your mother say that poems are true, even if they aren't true in the same way as prose. Or maybe that was Walter."

Fair enough. That sounded like them. But I wasn't about to let this Seventh Circle business stand unchallenged.

"If that's true, then so is this," I said, thumbing through the Whitman until I found the eschatology that spoke to me as no sermon ever had:

 _I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end,_  
_But I do not talk of the beginning or the end._  
_There was never any more inception than there is now,_  
_Nor any more youth or age than there is now,_  
_And will never be any more perfection than there is now,  
_ _Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.****_

The words rang through me, resonating at a frequency that I knew as my own. This was it exactly: the present moment paramount, the reality and divinity of here and now.

"It's just a poem," he whispered. "It's not even the Bible. It isn't real."

"It  _is_  real," I flared.

I thought he might cry, but perhaps it was only firelight twitching across his face. "Which one?"

* * *

I will die in approximately seventy seconds. No help for it. Whatever that collision did, my machine is in tatters. Rudder bar useless, stick leaden. I heave and heave and manage to straighten out a little so that I'm falling at an angle, rather than straight down. Not spinning anymore, that's good. But I don't know what it does except maybe reset my clock back to eighty.

I'm definitely dying and no mistake. To be perfectly honest, this is better than I was expecting. I don't seem to be on fire. The wind has blown away the charred debris and left no lingering flames. That's good. We all hate the thought of burning to death and it looks like I will be spared that, at least.

I suppose my parents will be upset. And Susan. Poor Susan. Mother Susan. That's a real wrench and no mistake. But they've got Jem back now, so they'll be alright. It's been hard these past few months, thinking that Mother and Dad would have to lose all three of us. But Jem's alive and it's a miracle and I'm glad for all of them. They'll get to keep him now and carry on the Blythe line. Thank God that cup never passed to me. There will be a next generation and they'll hear a good story about me, how I fought bravely and died well, like Walter, and never disappointed anyone.

Sixty seconds. I've had other letters, too. Dante has come slinking back into Kit's.  _Flakes of fire_. That's how he described his dreams, what he sees now, with his lost eye. I had hoped that we were done with all that, but it's bred too close to the bone in him. I would have him forget that hell, and every hell: the burning barn and the endless mud and the Violence Against God. God damn Dante. What made him an expert on hell, anyway?

Well, Kit will be able to put all that aside now. Without me around, there will be no more sneaking, no more worrying, no more fear of prison or lashes or hellfire. I can picture him without all that. Wading in the brook at home, sunlight in his hair, smiling in the green, soft, glad, safe valley. How long does he have? Fifty years at least. Not troubled, furtive, hidden years, either. This is better. Fifty years or more of tranquility and his hope of heaven after.

Myself, I have about fifty seconds. I wonder whether he will marry. He can, now that I'm gone. I can see him teaching a little boy all the secrets of bugs and birds, the blue eyes restored in his son. I suppose that implies a wife. Well, he'll do right by her, whoever she is. They will make a home, keep a garden, read together on a sofa, and never, ever Dante. He will kiss her with lips at once softer and more determined than you would expect, with a smile always tucked away somewhere, ready to spring out at the lightest touch.

Forty seconds and perhaps the rapid drop is finally getting to me because now I can feel the plummet in my stomach. I'll never see him again. He will live and live and live and I'll never hear him laugh or catch the scent of sweet flag off his clothes or feel his fingers twined through my hair, holding me fast while he urges me on.

Never? That can't be right. It's not the drop turning my guts to water now, but a rush of elemental terror.  _Never?_

But what can I do about it? I'll be dead in thirty seconds. I pass over our lines, the trenches no longer sutures in the earth, but great muddy gashes not so very far below. I kick the bar below my boots, but I've got nothing from the rudder. One wing is in tatters. I haul on the stick, haul again, put everything I've got into it and gain a few more degrees, but not enough.

Come on. Really pull. So what if breaks off? There's nothing to lose now. I wrench, I yank, something slips, and slips again, and the stick is more responsive now. Just a bit. Am I doing it? Am I leveling off? Yes. Somewhat. Little good it will do me now, I'm still going to plow a new crater in the ground in twenty seconds. The machine itself will crush me, send its guts smashing through mine, go up in a fireball and burn me to a crisp in my harness.

Unless . . .

Unless I'm not in the plane when it goes in.

No time to examine that reckless thought.

Ten, I throw off my harness.

Nine, haul myself out of the cockpit.

Eight, plant my feet on the starboard wing.

Seven, grasp a cabane strut.

Six, lean in against the lashing wind.

Five, stand tall as I hurtle toward destruction.

Four, right here in this field.

Three, and it's now or never.

Two, and  _I'm sorry, Kit_.

One . . . and I step off into open air.

* * *

"Is that him? The crazy son of a bitch who  _jumped_?"*****

"Sure is. Blythe."

"Blythe? Lucky, more like. The devil's own."

I crack an eye to see two men standing over me. If this is hell, it smells of carbolic acid, not brimstone.

"You're awake!" says the shorter man. A doctor. He has darkish hair, but the light hurts my eyes and I can't get a good look at him through my squint.

"Awake?" I struggle to sit up.

"Don't trouble yourself, Blythe, don't trouble yourself. You had quite the crack-up there. Everyone's talking about it."

As he speaks, I take inventory. Heart: beating. Lungs: breathing. Though,  _ah_ , a sharp pain there. Arms: two. Hands: two. Legs and feet under a blanket but apparently whole. Head:  _splitting_.

"Your commanding officer was here earlier. He said you'll have the Distinguished Flying Cross for this."

Another sharp pain for another breath. "Did he say . . .  _ah_  . . . what happened to the rest of my flight? Corcoran? And Russell?"

"Well, I don't know about that," the short doctor says amiably. "Perhaps we can find out. But I do know that you're very lucky, son. Couple of broken ribs. Some truly magnificent bruising. And I'm sure you've noticed the knock to the head."

Sledgehammer to the head.

"I'll . . . live?"

The shorter doctor laughs a piercing laugh that lacerates my brain and makes me see stars. "Goodness, yes. You just rest up a bit and you'll be good as new. I'm afraid they won't even send you home for this."

Home?

"They didn't . . . didn't send my parents a telegram, did they?"

"For some bruises and cracked ribs? Son, if the RAF sent a telegram every time a pilot got banged up in a landing, they'd do nothing else all the live long day."

Live . . . long . . .

Panic breaks over me and I startle, jarring my ribs so that I wince and gasp.

I'm not dead. I was supposed to die. And now . . .

Kit. He was supposed to have safety and heaven and a blue-eyed son. Am I so selfish that I would rather see him damned than give him up? What have I done?

The tall doctor is speaking now. "The ambulance driver who brought you in said it was the damnedest thing he ever saw. You crashed in full view of a battalion that had just come off the line. They say you stood up on the wing of the plane bold as Lucifer and jumped just before the crash. You rolled ass over teakettle and stood up under your own power before you passed out. Hell of a thing. The ambulance men said the entire battalion cheered the whole time they were loading you in. Bloody hero."

"I don't remember any of that," I murmur.

"That's alright," says the short doctor. "You're safe now, and no need to worry."

* * *

Notes:

*Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881) was a Scottish philosopher whose most famous work is a compilation of his lectures called,  _On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History_  (1841). One of the lectures is called "The Hero as Poet," taking Dante and Shakespeare as its examples. Carl's full name is Thomas Carlyle Meredith.

**Longfellow's translation, with a slight modern clarification on the last line from the translation by Douglas Neff.

***The English poet, utopian socialist, and gay rights activist Edward Carpenter (1844-1929) was 25 when a friend handed him a book of Whitman's poems. In his autobiography,  _My Days and Dreams_ , Carpenter marks that day as a turning point in his life, saying, "I remember lying down then and there on the floor and for half an hour poring, pausing, wondering. I could not make the book out, but I knew at the end of that time that I intended to go on reading it . . . From that time forward a profound change set in within me. I remember the long and beautiful summer nights, sometimes in the College garden by the riverside, sometimes sitting at my own window which itself overlooked a little old-fashioned garden enclosed by grey and crumbling walls; sometimes watching the silent and untroubled dawn; and feeling all the time that my life deep down was flowing out and away from the surroundings and traditions amid which I lived — a current of sympathy carrying it westward, across the Atlantic. I wrote to Whitman, obtained his books from him, and occasional postcardial responses. But outwardly, and on the surface, my life went on as usual." Elsewhere in the same work: "[Whitman's] writings had been my companions, and had been working a revolution within me." These passages interest me not only because they are among the many testimonies of what Whitman meant to LGBTQ people living in the 19th and early 20th centuries, but because of their consideration of the tension between an internal experience and outward appearances.

****Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

*****Shirley's crash is based on the crash of New Zealand RAF pilot Keith Caldwell in September of 1918 near Cambrai. Caldwell suffered a midair collision in his S.E.5a, climbed onto the wing, and jumped clear at the last moment. He was not substantially injured and was back in combat in October. He survived the war and served in WWII, eventually commanding the RNZAF. There are a few other accounts of RAF pilots landing while standing on their wings in dire circumstances, including Canadian RAF pilot Alan McLeod. RAF (and other Allied) aircrew were not issued parachutes during WWI, though balloon crews usually were. German aircrews got parachutes at the very end of the war.


	49. Armistice

**Armistice**

* * *

26 October 1918

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Di,

We are all doing very well at Ingleside. Thank you for inquiring after your mother. She is better than she has been in years, and walks around the house reciting verses I haven't heard since she was a girl. I am sure that you will have a long letter from her soon, you and Nan both. Either that or she is writing something else, which is perhaps better still.

There was no "I told you so" in your last letter and I must admire your restraint. But you were right, sweetheart, and I won't forget your faith. How lucky all your patients are to have you fighting their corner.

Unfortunately, my own joy is tempered by other circumstances. No doubt you have heard that the influenza epidemic has reached the Island. I have 16 patients down with it already and more falling ill every day. Dr. Parker and I are quite over-extended and there is no telling how severe the epidemic may get. We hear rumors and reports that some cities are experiencing mortality rates of up to 5%, though I pray that we will not see anything so high.

I have not lost any patients in the Glen, but one of Dr. Parker's patients in Lowbridge has succumbed. It is very strange — she was young and otherwise perfectly healthy. Usually, influenza strikes the weak and elderly, but this epidemic does not seem to be following normal rules.

I know that there is ample work to occupy you in Kingsport, and that it would be difficult for you to get away in the middle of term. But I must ask anyway. If it is at all possible, would you consider coming home to help me? Just for a little while.

I know that you can do good work wherever you are, sweetheart. I would ask you to come do some of it in the Glen if you can.

Love,

Dad

* * *

30 October 1918

Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Dad,

I have spoken with the Dean and taken a leave of absence from the medical school.

Expect me and Nan by the evening train on Saturday the 2nd. We may even beat this letter home. Marie will keep Aster House for us and we will stay as long as you need us.

Your loving daughter,

Di

* * *

1 November 1918

Royal Victoria Hospital, Netley, Hampshire, England

Dear Di,

My transfer was not approved. I go back to London in the morning.

St. Mary's cannot spare any nursing staff due to the present influenza epidemic. The wards were already full of soldiers, and now they are crammed to bursting, and half the staff is down with the same flu as the patients. Jem did not seem to have heard of the epidemic and I was certainly not going to tell him. Has the influenza reached the Island yet?

I don't know how I can leave Jem. He is better, it is true. Even just in the past week his face seems to be gaining back some of its shape and color. His hair is all a red fuzz, except for the bits that are growing back in gray.* There's nothing to prevent him from continuing to improve every day, and nothing much for me to do to help him along. He needs food and rest and he's getting it.

But how can I go? To know that he is so near and not be able to be with him? I thought I had experienced all the various forms of infernal separation this war could afford, but it continues to invent ways to torment me.

I was on the point of breaking my contract to stay, but Jem insisted that I go back. He says there is nothing more to be done for him at the moment and many others who need care. That is true, but not enough to send me back to London. But Jem is rather animated on the point. I don't know — there is something bothering me there, and I can't quite puzzle it out. Jem is cheerful enough and jokes about enjoying his vacation while I work around the clock. It's true enough that the patients need me, and I will admit that I do long to work where I will be most useful. But I don't like being sent away.

How are you, honey? Send me a little news of Kingsport. Is Emile home yet? Has Marie found an apartment? How are you getting along at the medical school? Jem tells me to assure you that he means to be back in his rightful place by next September and is quite pleased that he will be able to crib chemistry notes off of you (don't let him).

I must close this. I have only a few more hours here and even if I must spend them just watching Jem sleep, I mean to put a prayer into every remaining moment.

My love to Nan and all our friends,

Faith

* * *

11 November 1918

Royal Victoria Hospital, Netley, Hampshire, England

Dear Jerry,

I had my surgery this morning. When I came out of the ether, there were bells ringing and I thought for a moment that perhaps I had actually died at last, but of course they were ringing peals for the Armistice.

When we started out, we thought this day was just a few weeks away. Now that it has come, I can hardly believe it is real, and that we are both alive to see it. At the beginning, I would have thought that such a thing went without saying. Now it seems a miracle beyond all understanding.

Faith has gone back to London. She tried to get a transfer to Netley, but the V.A.D. wouldn't approve it. She was somewhat put out about it, and I sympathized as best I could.

But I will tell you candidly, Jerry, I was not completely sorry. Not that I was glad to see her go — gods, I hated even to sleep when she was here. But that's just the trouble. I need to sleep. And eat. And have a little space for a while, I think. I love her beyond anything I can tell you, but I hate to have her see me this way. It was wonderful to see her again, but it was miserable to lie here, weak and helpless. I had hoped that when I got back, I would lift her up and spin her around and kiss her till every gray head in the Glen buzzed with indignation. Instead I lie here, barely able to sit up for an hour, having nurses give me sponge baths and empty my bedpans. I want to spend my whole life with Faith, but not these next few weeks.

Sorry. That's probably more than you need to hear. But there's no one else I can say these things to, and I suspect that you might understand.

Don't let this inspire you to confess any gory details about Nan, however. I'm happy to hear your troubles, but no specifics, please.

I'll race you to the Glen. Last one to Rainbow Valley is a rotten egg.

Jem

* * *

13 November 1918

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Faith,

I just got your letter. I am back in the Glen and Marie had to forward it on to me.

Yes, the influenza epidemic has reached the Glen, which is why I am home. The Dean approved my leave of absence — he knows how many doctors we have lost here on the Island and agreed that it was more important for me to help here than to finish out the term. He promised that I'll be readmitted in full standing in the spring, as long as I can pass the fall exams. I'm confident that I can — I have not found any of the first-year work challenging after all my preparations.

Dad and Dr. Parker are running from dawn till dusk and well after, and there are new patients every day. Sometimes I go with Dad on his rounds and sometimes we split up to cover more ground. I feel wicked saying anything positive in such a situation, but it gives me a great sense of satisfaction to know that he trusts me with his own patients.

Nan has been a great help, too. She has been taking charge of many of the patients once they are clearly on the mend, freeing us to look after those who are still in danger. She has had a bit of the old spring in her step lately. Then yesterday she got a letter from Jerry — I suppose he did catch the flu early in October, but had a light case and was never in any real danger. But he said that the doctor took one look at the length of his medical file and stamped him "Return to Canada" without a second thought. He expects to be sent home before the New Year and I don't think Nan has touched ground in 24 hours.

We have not mentioned anything about the epidemic in our letters to Jem, and will continue to refrain from doing so. You are right — he needs rest and this would worry him terribly. Dad tries to conceal as much as possible from Mother and Rilla, though obviously they know that we have all been very busy lately. Luckily, everyone's joy over the Armistice seems to be keeping their spirits up and nothing so mundane as the flu can dampen them. I notice that Dad is very careful — he never says "influenza" around Mother or Rilla — he just calls it "the flu," as casual as you please. As if it were just a normal round of autumn illness. It seems to be working — maybe not on Mother, but Rilla hardly even seems to know it's happening. At least she never mentions it.

All my love to you, Faith. You do not give many details about Jem's condition, but Nan is not the only Ingleside twin with an imagination. I wish I were there to hold your hand, and have instructed Sylvia to do so in my stead. I'm so glad that you have one another, and gladder still that we will have you both home soon enough. In the meantime, I will remind you of what old Matron Lloyd used to say to us: "Treat the patient in front of you." You treat yours and I'll treat mine, and always know that we are fighting alongside one another, even at such a distance.

Your loving sister,

Di

P.S. You may tell Jem that we have had a letter from Marie. Emile has arrived safely in Kingsport and they are keeping Aster House for us while Nan and I are in the Glen. They are well and happy and looking forward to meeting you.

P.P.S. You may also tell him that I will be happy to study with him, but there will be no cribbing and that I already have a lab partner, so he needn't get his hopes up that I'll do labs for him either.

* * *

13 November 1918

#3 Canadian General Hospital, Boulogne, France

Dear Kit,

Sorry I haven't been able to come up to see you. It has been quite impossible. I am perfectly well — I only had a rough landing and am a bit banged up. Just bruises and scrapes. I'll be back on duty soon, though I don't know what the job will be after this.

On the whole, I don't think there's much chance of me getting home by my birthday. You'll be there in no time, though. I hope you can rest easier on the Island. Una will take care of you. And you'll have the woods and the shore and all the little animals you want. That will be good. You can rest and be safe. Say hello to that tabby at the manse for me.

Recently, it has occurred to me that Rainbow Valley will be seeming rather small these days, with everyone returning. Rilla is the least of it. I have been wondering what it will be like to go back to living under the eyes of Susan and my parents and everyone who has known me since the minute I was born. It's not that I don't miss them. But I hardly know what to think. I never expected to see the Glen again and I find that I can't quite imagine myself there.

Right now, I will not try. The war is over. I can hardly realize it.

Yours truly,

Shirley

* * *

Notes:

*"One passenger stepped off the train — a tall fellow in a faded lieutenant's uniform, who walked with a barely perceptible limp. He had a bronzed face and there were some gray hairs in the ruddy curls that clustered around his forehead."  _RoI_ , chapter 35


	50. No Truly Hidden Things

**No Truly Hidden Things**

* * *

17 November 1918

Cedar Lawn Hospital, Hampstead Heath, London

Dear Shirley,

You alright? What happened?

Ordinarily, I'd try to believe you when you say it's just bumps and bruises, but if they sent you to Bolougne, it must be something more than that.

Unfortunately, I can't get down to see you either. But I am recovering well and looking forward to getting home soon. They say I may be in the Glen by Christmas, and it's hard not to laugh at that, though it might really be true now.

Really, are you alright? You can tell me.

Kit

* * *

22 November 1918

#3 Canadian General Hospital, Boulogne, France

Dear Carl,

I'm fine. Don't worry about me. Just concentrate on getting yourself home safe.

Shirley

* * *

26 November 1918

Cedar Lawn Hospital, Hampstead Heath, London

Dear Una,

I hope that you are well, and that all the folks in the Glen are getting on alright. All the talk here is of going home, and I can scarcely let myself believe that the Armistice is real.

The doctors and nurses here are taking excellent care of me. I am really in the best shape of anyone in this convalescent hospital. The piece of shrapnel that took my eye made rather a clean job of it, and though there is some scarring on my temple, and a magnificent bruise that turned every color in the rainbow before it faded, I am not otherwise hurt. There is no real question of my healing — the eye is gone and that is that.

I feel perfectly well enough to sit and read or write. It took a little getting used to, but I am pretty well adjusted now. My handwriting hasn't improved any, but I daresay it's still legible. I spend much of my time writing letters for the other men — most can dictate, but some don't know how to write and some can't hold a pen.

Sometimes, one of the nurses allows me to go out in the little courtyard for a while. There is a gorgeous orb weaver spider living in one of the arches and I like to visit her and see what she has caught. When I can't get out to the courtyard, I like to sit by one of the windows looking out over an hawthorn tree that is always crowded with titmice. They are clever little birds and a few of them will take crumbs from my hand. At first, the nurses shooed them away, but I think they realized that the other men like to watch my progress in gentling them, and anything that keeps their spirits up is a welcome occurrence.

I have been worrying over some things of late. This will hardly surprise you, but I hope that you will not mind too much if I try to think through some of them in this letter. I apologize — I have an awful lot of time on my hands and too little to fill it.

I am wondering whether it will be possible to go back to life in the Glen after this. Wouldn't it be grand if we could just return home and find one another exactly as we were? I know it cannot be, and not only because of Walter. Nothing ever stays where you leave it.

Will Jerry be able to go back to normal life? He could have gone home after he was shot, if he had wanted to. It was very brave of him to turn around and volunteer, but it worries me that he could not let it go. Will he be ever be able to? It was so very good to see him when he came to visit me in the summer, but a bit awkward, too. You would think that after four years apart we would have had so much to say to one another, but it was hard to fill an hour.

What about Jem? Can he ever be himself again? I have heard bits and pieces from both Faith and Jerry, but neither of them has been willing to tell me plain how he is. Jem is alive and that is all to the good. But I do not know who he will be after this.

You'll have read about Shirley in the newspapers. He ended the war with 34 aerial victories — one of Canada's top ten flying aces. Did you know that he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross? He didn't write of it, but I read his citation in a newspaper. He took fire to protect the other planes in his wing and shot down two fighters to get them home safely before he went down himself. He says he is alright — I had a letter from him recently and he says he is not badly hurt. I'm proud to know that my friend has done these great deeds. But I worry about him. I think perhaps it is harder to kill than it is to die.

When I was a child, I loved all little creatures, but I loved ants best of all. Everyone thought it very strange. I will tell you why I loved them. In the garden in Maywater, there was a giant ant hill, as high as my knee, like a sandy volcano. It was in a protected spot under the big chestnut tree, where no one had any reason to bother it. Thousands of ants lived there, and it must have taken them many generations to build it. I loved to watch them work and fight and love one another — they do, you know, if you know how to recognize it. I remember telling Mary Vance that once — she didn't believe me that they could, until we watched an anthill one day and she saw  _an ant die of grief because another ant got killed — wouldn't work — wouldn't eat — just died_.* Do you remember how to see hidden things, Una?

At Maywater, there was a terrible thunderstorm, and when the weather cleared, I saw that the chestnut tree had toppled, roots and all, and torn up all the ground around it. The anthill was obliterated. I cried about it all day. The next day, I went to see the ruins and do you know what I found? A new anthill. Very small, but the ants working on it just the same. They worked and worked — I watched them all the rest of that year, and when we left for Glen St. Mary, they had built as high as my ankle. I have no doubt that they rebuilt their home in all its former glory. And from that time, I loved ants best.

I do not know whether we can do it. I am sure a good many ants did not live to see that second hill. Can we beat our swords into plowshares and our spears into pruning hooks? I honestly do not know.

And, of course, we will never get Walter back. I am so, so sorry, Una. I think I did not let myself think of him much at the time — it was too hard, when I was trying to keep going from day to day, but now I realize that he will not be with us in the Glen and it is an awful weight. I do not know anything for certain, but I have observed small things all my life, and I do not think I am wrong when I say that you should have my deepest condolences. It know something of secrets, and when I think of having to mourn in silence, I feel that it is too much to ask anyone to bear.

I love you, Una. I know that that is assumed, but I need to tell you in no uncertain terms. I fear I may need your help in the years to come and I can only hope to help you as well. Let there never be unsaid things between us.

I have hope that I will be home by Christmas, though don't tell that to Father and Rosemary, or they will get their hopes up. I would hate to disappoint Bruce if I cannot make it in time.

Do give Bruce my love. I agree that it was certainly very brave of him to drown Stripey because he believed it might bring Jem back, but I feel awfully bad over that.** I don't know what effect it might have on his theology, thinking that God demands that we sacrifice what we love most. But I do know that it was very hard for me to read of kittens being drowned at the manse. I suppose Stripey was a descendant of that tabby kitten I saved all those years ago, and I was very sorry to hear that he met such an end. I like to think of the Glen as a safe place for all soft creatures, but it worries me dreadfully to know that it isn't.

Love,

Carl

* * *

5 December 1918

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Carl,

I suppose I should have known that there are no truly hidden things in a house that shelters such a lover of tiny ants. I thank you for your condolences. You are not wrong. I find that I cannot bring myself to say more in a letter, but I can tell you how much I look forward to having you home again. You say that you may need my help, and though I do not pretend to know exactly what you mean, know that you will always have anything that is mine to give.

You ask whether swords can be beaten into plowshares. I do not know either. But I do know that if there is any safe, peaceful place on earth where you might heal and grow strong, it is the Glen. It is the nearest thing on Earth to the promise of Micah 4:4, that every man might sit under his own vine and fig tree and none shall make them afraid.

I think perhaps that Father could advise you better — he always could explain things so very well, and has always been so kind and sympathetic toward us. I know you will not have forgotten the time he tried to whip you for putting that eel in Mrs. Carr's buggy, and could not bring himself to do it, even though it would have been just. He did not punish Bruce over Stripey, either, though I think that they had a very solemn discussion about Abraham and Isaac. I remember once telling Mary Vance that God was ever so much kinder and more loving than Father, and she told me that if God was even half as good, then He would suit her fine. Have you written to him? Bring your worries to him, Carl — he will not forsake you. Neither God nor Father.

I do hope you will be home by Christmas. Come home, dear Carl, and let us take care of one another for a little while.

All my love,

Una

* * *

Notes:

* _Rainbow Valley_ , Chapter 8: Miss Cornelia Intervenes

*** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , Chapter 32: Word from Jem. One of LMM's many cat murders.

 


	51. Only Slightly Less Dangerous

**Only Slightly Less Dangerous**

* * *

22 November 1918

Royal Victoria Hospital, Netley, Hampshire, England

Faith,

Well, I have put two and two together at last.

Jerry wrote that he had been ill and that's why he is being demobbed so quickly. He made some casual reference to there being illness about more generally, but I didn't think too much of it at the time. But then I realized that the nurses were keeping newspapers away from me when I asked for one and couldn't get it for charm or money. Did you put them up to that or is it some sort of sorority of nurses thing?

Why didn't you tell me that there is an influenza epidemic? You surely knew it before you left here. Did you think I wouldn't hear about it? That I wouldn't find out that the city authorities in London buried 2,500 victims last week alone?

Get out of there, Faith. Quit. Desert. I don't care. Get out of that city and on a ship home today. Yesterday. If I could get out of this bed, I would come to London and carry you away myself.

And how is that you decided not to tell me about it? I haven't heard a peep out of Dad or Di either, which I must suppose is your doing as well, since  _The Times_  says the flu has been in North America since October.

What did you think you were doing? Did you think you could keep this from me indefinitely? I am so angry I can barely hold this pen. Get out of London, Faith. Now.

Jem

* * *

30 November 1918

St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London

Dear Jem,

What was I thinking? Perhaps that you would work yourself into a frenzy and stew over the implacable forces of pestilence instead of resting quietly and building up your strength? Was I wrong?

Don't scold me, Jem. There is plenty you haven't told me, either. I suppose you think you are saving me worry as well, but you aren't. Someday, you will have to tell me what happened to your left hand, and don't think I will forget about it just because you wish I would.

Yes, I asked the folks at home not to mention the influenza epidemic to you. The nurses in your ward offered to keep newspapers away from you as long as possible, and I accepted. I would do it again. If you are just finding out about it now, that means I was able to give you weeks of restorative ignorance, and I would certainly do that over again any way I could. So it is no use asking me to apologize.

Since you know already, there is no use telling you anything but the plain truth. Yes, the flu is in London. Yes, we have lost many patients to it here at St. Mary's. But I am perfectly well and intend to remain that way. I know that such assurances will not keep you from raging about this, but I offer them anyway.

Try to rest, Jem. I am well. In a few months, we will both be home, together, and all this will just seem like a nightmare. It really is ending — Carl is headed for Liverpool and a ship home. We'll all get there soon.

I love you. I promise not to yell at you the next time I see you if you will promise the same.

Love,

Faith

* * *

5 December 1918

Royal Victoria Hospital, Netley, Hampshire, England

Dear Faith,

I'm sorry. Of course I will not yell at you, though I will be quite surprised if you can stop yourself from yelling at me. I almost wish you wouldn't restrain yourself — it would seem just like old times. If I close my eyes now, I can see you red in the face and hollering at me through your seaweed hair on Gull Island, and I've only had one or two other days when I've been as happy as I was then.

I know you must do your work. It's just — after all this — the war is  _over_. Aren't we supposed to be safe now? Back home in the Glen? Somehow it seems worse now, though I know that's foolish. But it was supposed to be over after the Armistice. It seems silly and childish to be upset over the injustice of it all, but it is all so unfair.

I was glad to hear about Carl, at least. Home for Christmas at last. I had a short letter from Jerry — he has all his papers in order and is just waiting for a spot on a transport, so I guess I will lose our race to Rainbow Valley. No chance of me getting out of here before spring, I don't think. Though you will be pleased to hear that I have been eating normal hospital meals on the normal hospital schedule for nearly a week now. It is not always easy, but is getting easier.

Forgive me for that last letter, Faith. It is very hard to lie here, all day, every day, unable to do anything at all.

I love you and am proud to know you are fighting your own battles, even if I wish you didn't have to.

All my love and then a bit more,

Jem

XXX

P.S. My hand is fine. I have consulted with one of the orthopedic surgeons here who is quite confident that I will regain full range of motion if I keep up with the exercises he has set me. It is much more flexible already and getting stronger every day. I will tell you about it if you want to know. But not in a letter.

* * *

25 December 1918

Bramshott Military Camp, Hampshire, England

Dear Nan,

Merry Christmas.

It's been a few years since I've been able to get you a proper gift, but I have one now, and I hope very much that you will like it. It's in my pocket and I plan on delivering it myself, as I have a spot on a transport that departs next Saturday.

Tirra lirra,

Jerry

* * *

12 December 1918

HMHS Essequibo, docked at Liverpool, England

Dear Shirley,

Shipping out for home in the morning. It took a while to get me a spot on a transport, what with everyone needing a ride west. Now it seems that I'll be home for Christmas. No care packages for me this year, and fewer rats, I hope.

On Monday, I had a letter from Bruce. He writes that everyone at home is buzzing with excitement, and says that Rosemary and Susan have both been saving up sugar a spoonful at a time so that they can bake us nice things when we get home. He also included a very long list of all the things we would do together and everything he has saved up to show me. I've missed him. Una, too. And my father — his letters seem lighter, as if he had hardly brooded over them at all.

Only a few more days now. Are you back with your squadron? Is there any word of when you will be mustered out? There can't be much left for you to do. Do they still have you flying? I suppose it's a bit safer now that no one is shooting at you, though no more rough landings, please. Not now.

Now be sure to write and let the Glen folks know when you will be coming home. It may not be Paris, but you may be certain that you will get a very glad welcome just the same. I will round up the fishing tackle and have it ready for you when you come, whatever the weather.

Yours truly!

Kit

* * *

27 December 1918

Outside Paris

Carl,

I am sending this letter to the manse. How strange to think that you will be home in the Glen when you read it. Very strange.

I'm glad you will be, of course. You'll be safe there.

But I have been trying to imagine myself back home and find that I can't. Every time I try, it gets away from me.

Everyone here is talking of going home, but is there a place for me in Glen St. Mary? I've seen Paris. And all those folks at home definitely would not like it at all. Not one bit.

I didn't expect to survive the war, so it didn't seem worthwhile to think about what would come after. But now it's over and I'm still here. I don't think it was supposed to turn out this way.

I still go flying. It's only slightly less dangerous without the shooting than it was with. Did I ever say that flying wasn't thrilling? I don't know how I could have. To be above the world, observing but unobserved, with the wind whistling so loud that no one even tries to talk through it . . .

I know everyone wants me to come home. I just don't think I can.

Shirley


	52. Homeward Bound

**Homeward Bound**

* * *

1 January 1919

Royal Victoria Hospital, Netley, Hampshire, England

Dear Dad,

Happy New Year to all at Ingleside!

I am certainly feeling fine these days. The Matron promised me that if I behaved myself, she would let me start walking up and down the halls unattended beginning in the new year. Well, you can bet that I was awake and ready at dawn (sitting respectfully in my bed of course). I made it from one end of the hall to the other just fine and mean to take two laps tomorrow.

The femur is healing well, though unfortunately a bit shorter than it was. That is to be expected, I suppose. I know you will want to know all the specifics, but I hesitate to bore the other readers of this letter with too much detail. It's enough to note for now that the surgery was an excellent success, removing much of the scar tissue and re-setting the bone straight. The army has given me a special shoe with a one-inch lift and it is very ugly (though perfectly functional). I'm looking forward to having a better one made in Charlottetown when I get home, so if Mother and Rilla are in need of a project, you might ask them to hunt up a shoemaker who can do good custom work.

Thank everyone at home for the Christmas parcel. Susan has outdone herself, though I can't think how, with the restrictions on sugar. Thank you especially for the gingerbread — you know it is typically my inclination to share such a treat with my fellow officers, but I assure you that I have complied with doctor's orders (and Susan's) and eaten it all myself.

Jerry came to see me just before Christmas and I guess he has shipped out by now. I told him to bring you all hugs from me, so see that he does.

I know you will be wanting to know when I will get out of here, and I would quite like to know as well! I'd go tomorrow if old Matron Battle-axe would let me (she is a duck and a credit to the Empire). Realistically, I think I will be here at Netley another few months. Tell Mother that I hope to be home for Easter, though I can make no promises. I will do what I can, though, and walk a bit farther every day.

My love to all,

Jem

* * *

6 January 1919

Dear Carmilla,

I am back in Kingsport at last. There hasn't been a new flu case in either the Glen or Lowbridge since November, so no further need of reinforcements. Besides, both Dad and Dr. Parker are riding high on the news from the boys overseas. Jem is growing stronger every day; Dr. Parker's son Billy is expected by the end of the month and his other son Andy ("Pig" to us) came home on the same hospital ship as Carl.

Gosh, it was good to see Carl. It's not that we were ever particular chums, but just the fact that the world could give someone back to us rather than forever taking them away is enough to raise everyone's spirits. Una Meredith looked as if someone had handed her the keys to the kingdom and little Bruce attached himself to Carl like a barnacle. Carl's a cheerful fellow — more fun-loving than Jerry, but nowhere near as wild as our Faith. You'll meet him when he starts Redmond in the fall.

Miller Douglas was on the same train as Carl. He's the one who's engaged to our friend Mary Vance, and lost his leg at Hill 70. Why on earth it took 16 months to send him home after that we will never know, but that's the army for you. You just have to go along with its infinite wisdom, however implausible.

I wanted to stay in the Glen and wait for Jerry, but had to come back to make up my exams. Jerry is due any day now and Nan is flying. I tried to convince her that it is physiologically impossible to survive without sleep indefinitely, but she assured me that she is well practiced by now and persisted in sitting up all night in our window seat, dreaming.

You won't know her after this, Syl. You only ever knew her as she was in the war. But it's more than that. Sometimes I feel as though I don't know her myself, for all the bonds of twinship. Now she has joy layered over all her wounds and it occurs to me that we will all have to get reacquainted, won't we?

Nan's not coming back to Kingsport this term. She told the school board that she will be available in September, but not before. She'll spend the spring and summer at Ingleside. Or in Rainbow Valley, more like. I'm heart-glad for her.

As for myself, it is back to the books. I sat my exams Friday and Saturday and passed them all. I had a meeting with Dean Hutchinson today and he readmitted me to the medical school without further conditions. I don't know whether that is on my own merits or because the Cooper Prize plaque hangs outside his office, but I'm not proud enough to care. I'm only grateful that I could help at home and not fall too far behind.

In our meeting, Dean Hutchinson asked me if I had given any thought to specialties. We have to choose subjects for special instruction in the second year, and I have been thinking more and more of obstetrics and women's health in general. I feel a bit sheepish admitting it, both to you and to the Dean, as it feels predictable and conventional. Shouldn't I aspire to be a surgeon? But I loved my time with Dr. Wilson. More than once, there were skittish patients who asked for me to do their examinations and were at ease with me as they were not with Dr. Wilson, even though he is a kind man. Dad once told me that the relationship between patient and doctor is an exchange of trust, and if that is so, I might do real good by serving women who can allow themselves to trust me. If I can give them that comfort, and let them really trust a doctor for once, isn't that better than being an anonymous pair of hands holding a scalpel?

Hurry home, dearest. I certainly understand what it is to have a duty to one's patients. But must you really stay on through the summer? You will need a rest before you start your nursing course and I have a hundred ideas. How funny to think of you as a student nurse. What will they teach you? How to wrap a bandage? The proper care of thermometers? Oh well, you will get your credential and then let anyone try to stop you conquering the world.

You ask who you can expect to find at Aster House when you return, and I hardly know the answer. Yours truly, of course. And Una Meredith — she has decided to take the two-year Household Science course. She is the sweetest thing and you will both adore and terrify her. I expect that Faith will need somewhere else to live, and still hold out hope that Nan and Jerry will have learned a lesson and stop torturing themselves to no purpose. If not, Nan will be here as well. But I think the Gagnons will have moved on by then. They are family now, but want their own place. Understandable, especially as I suspect that there will soon be more of them than there are at present. But I hope they will not go too far.

Whoever sleeps under this roof matters little to me as long as you are among their number.

Yours truly,

Di

* * *

18 January 1919

St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London

Dear Carmilla yourself! You can hardly imagine yourself a doe-eyed Laura. The very thought makes me laugh.

How I wish I could write that I am homeward bound. Alas. The logistics of the thing are a knot we have not yet been able to cut. Between the Armistice and the flu, it is difficult to find any civilian berth going west, and certainly not one that either Faith or I can afford.

We have both renewed our contracts for the simple reason that we would have nowhere to sleep if we did not. Faith meant to go to Southampton rather than renewing, but there has been some difficulty with Jem's pay — apparently the army can't decide whether he is dead or alive either — so she has nothing to live on if she should leave the V.A.D. I told her she might write to either her parents or yours for help, but if you're not proud, it seems you're the only one in the family. Is there something in the soil that makes you Islanders so stubborn?

In any event, Matron practically begged us to renew our contracts — she's that desperate for help, with everyone going home as soon as they can find a way. The V.A.D. will pay our passage home if we stay through May, and there isn't much chance of us getting out of here much earlier anyway, so that is what we have resolved to do.

In the meantime, we are sending soldiers home every day, and it is the gladdest work we have done since we began. Even the flu has died down in London, and we hope we have seen the last of it.

Never fear — I am counting the hours til I can come home to Aster House and enjoy every one of your hundred ideas. In the meantime, good luck in your studies. Do try to get ahead again so that you needn't work too hard over the summer.

Yours truly,

Sylvia

* * *

18 January 1919

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Shirley,

I don't know what you mean when you say you can't come home. You must come home, of course. Everyone is desperate to see you.

Nothing could keep the folks at home from welcoming you with open arms. _Nothing_.

Even if you are worried, you shouldn't be. Jerry arrived last week. If you could have seen the rapture in Nan's face, or the way my father cried right there on the train platform, you wouldn't be so foolish. Susan and your parents are waiting every day to hear that you are on your way. You can't really be thinking of disappointing them after everything they've been through. I won't believe it.

Even if it's true that Rainbow Valley is crowded, we will just have to pretend it's the old Queen's days again.

Don't you remember?

Your last letter did not sound like you at all. It's not like you to get spooked, so I will assume that you just caught a strange mood and wrote things you didn't really mean.

Or else that something else has happened. Has it? Please - you can tell me anything.

Until I get your next letter, I will be like Little Dog Monday, waiting patiently but with great expectation. 

Yours truly,

Kit


	53. What an Address!

**What an Address!**

* * *

1 February 1919

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Shirley,

I am trying to wait patiently for an answer to my last letter, but it is not easy. I suppose it is possible that it went astray. If that is the case, let me assure you that we are all waiting anxiously to hear when you may be coming home. We have heard that they are keeping some of the airmen until the summer, which is a real disappointment. But you'll still be home in time for Redmond, won't you? You said you'd wait and so will I. Though I hope it will not be too long till I hear from you.

Yours Truly,

Kit

* * *

 

1 February 1919

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Di,

I'm up late again tonight, but it's no use scolding me. I suppose I will sleep sometime, but it seems blasphemous to spend any of these hours in oblivion.

It will hardly surprise you to hear that Jerry and I are engaged for real and true at last. You may retire your expression of perpetual exasperation, dearest.

Of course, you will renew it at once when I tell you that we will not be racing anyone down the aisle. After everything, we both want to realize the dream we had before the war, and that means Redmond and law school before we marry. Do not roll your eyes at me, Di Blythe. I have had a letter from the Kingsport School Board offering me a full-time post at the high school next year, so I will be at Aster House and Jerry will be studying and we will be happier than we have been in such a very long time. If you must harangue us, you will have ample opportunity, as I suspect Jerry will be haunting Aster House enough that we might consider charging him rent, or board at the very least.

I can't tell you everything in a letter, Di, but when I come back to Kingsport, I promise to pull a quilt up over our heads and giggle with you just as we did when we were little girls. For now I will only say that I am incandescently happy, such that I imagine a beacon must shine out from our window seat brighter than the Four Winds light.

Now, you must not imagine that I do nothing but cling to Jerry's arm and make a bore of myself to everyone else. We both of us have other ties to tend as well. This morning, Jerry went off walking with Carl — I think they will have to get reacquainted as well. Carl seemed cheerful enough when he came home at Christmas, but around the time Jerry came home he turned pale and silent. I know that Jerry was anxious about seeing him again after so long when they met last summer, but had hoped that they might grow close again. Well, I will give them as much time together as I can stand, and then we'll all be together in Kingsport in September. I am determined that we shall all get to know one another just as well as we ever did before.

Rilla was out this morning as well, so I took the opportunity to have a nice, chummy chat with Mother, curled up together on her bed like we haven't done in far too long. She petted my hair and admired my ring, though she laughed to see that it is a diamond. Apparently, when she was a girl, she imagined that  _diamonds were lovely glimmering purple stones until she saw a real one in a lady's ring and was so disappointed she cried._ * She must have got over her hurt eventually — do you remember that gorgeous diamond pendant Dad gave her for their anniversary when we were small? The one I "borrowed" that time we played Queen Victoria and the Koh-i-Noor? You were right, we should have used the cut-glass butter dish.

Mother told me the story of her own ring. She refused to wear a diamond because of the old disappointment, and Dad gave her pearls as a sign that they would  _willingly accept the sorrow of life with its joy._ ** I was reminded of the old love letters they wrote (I never told Mother I read them, though I expect she knows anyway). There was one where Mother wrote that they should  _dance to meet life and all it can bring to us, even if it brings scads of trouble and typhoid and twins!_ *** I hope they've gotten over their horror of the last by now, but I wonder if she ever wishes she had left the others well enough alone. As for me, I do not know whether I can dare the world to do its worst, not knowing what other tricks it may have up its diabolically inventive sleeve. But I have been tempered — we all have — and a diamond is right for me.

Please give all my love to Marie and Emile and Claude. I am sending along a gift for Claude — our old copy of  _The Princess and the Goblin_. Tell him that I will come back soon to read it to him and we will keep on with our lessons, both his and mine. In the meantime, I will send my love to all of you, knowing that you must be able to feel it at any distance.

Love,

Nan

* * *

21 March 1919

Rownhams House Convalescent Hospital, Southampton, Hampshire, England

Dear Faith,

I don't have much time to write. I have a spot on a transport home and I have to hurry if I hope to make it.

I'm sorry I can't come up to London to see you before I go. The doctors weren't going to let me go at all, but I have been out walking as much as possible this week to convince them that I am strong enough to make the crossing, and they have relented at the last minute.

Hurry home, Faith. The papers say that the worst of the influenza is over — surely the V.A.D. will be able to spare you soon. In the meantime, know that I'll be spending the spring in a certain rosebush clearing in Rainbow Valley, waiting for you.

Love,

Jem

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

* * *

26 March 1919

St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London

Dear Jem,

I am sending this letter to James Matthew Blythe, Ingleside, Glen St. Mary, PEI, Canada. What an address! I could write it several times more just to savor it.

We are sending patients home every day. What a delight it is to see them go! I am sorry you couldn't come up to see me, but I can see your joy every time I see the same on one of the faces here, and am glad you had no chance to delay.

As you say, the influenza epidemic has nearly burned itself out. We had a bit of a scare at the end of February when we began seeing more new cases than we expected, but the rate has slowed, and we only had a handful of new cases this week. We have begun to hope that the shadow has passed us over at last.

I smile to think of you among those rosebushes. Sometimes I think that that was another lifetime, and sometimes I can close my eyes and be right there again as if it were only yesterday. Save a place for me, laddie.

All my love,

Faith

* * *

27 March 1919

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Shirley,

I was over to Ingleside today and Susan asked me if I had heard from you. I had to tell her that I had not. It would break your heart to see her hope crumble into disappointment. It does mine, anyway. She loves you, Shirley, and always will.

Please write. No one here has had a line from you in such a long time. Please take pity on us.

Yours truly,

Carl


	54. Hi Dad

**Hi Dad**

* * *

11 April 1919

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Cruel Faith,

You know, some chaps come home from war to find their best girls waiting for them. And here I am, sitting pretty on a veranda in Glen St. Mary, pining for my brave and gallant lass overseas.

Jerry informs me that your most recent letter says that you might not be home until September. SEPTEMBER! A whole summer in the Glen, fit as a fiddle, watching every sweethearting couple strolling arm-in-arm . . . how you do torture me, Faith.

Everyone here is in a right state. I got home on Saturday, but wasn't able to phone up because I was hobbling through the streets of Charlottetown trying to catch the afternoon train. Thus, there was no one to meet me at the station — no one but good old Dog Monday. I can hardly believe he's been at the train station ever since I left! Of course everyone told me of it, but seeing is a different sort of believing. What a good, loyal little pup he is. He's been sleeping at the foot of my bed because no one can persuade him to do anything but follow me wherever I go. That includes church. Your father was very indulgent about that, even if Monday did lift his voice in song at odd moments.

After a rapturous greeting, at the station, Monday and I limped up the hill to Ingleside together (he being rather old by now and I having sat too long on the train — don't worry, the leg is getting stronger every day and was only stiff). I had great fun planning out how best to announce my arrival. I was afraid I might meet one of the family in the Glen street and lose my chance at a grand surprise, but luckily it was close to supper time and they were all at home. I considered knocking on the front door, but that seemed very formal. And I didn't particularly want to hulloo the hoose.

Then I got the idea of going round to the kitchen door and letting Monday in as quietly as I could and then just stepping back to see what happened.

It all depended on everyone being indoors (which is not a usual thing around Ingleside) and suppertime conspired to help me. I picked up Monday and crept round the side of the house and slipped him inside by the kitchen door. Now, this part of the plan would have worked much better if Monday had trotted happily into the dining room and announced my coming for me. But alas, he was quite put out by our separation and began to scratch at the door, barking to be let out.

You can be sure that that brought Susan into the kitchen in hurry. I heard her say, "What is the meaning of this?" and then, "Oh!" so loudly it must have alarmed everyone, for there was a great scraping of chairs and clatter as everyone rushed into the kitchen. I couldn't see what was going on, but in a few seconds, Dad opened the door and Monday rushed out and nearly tripped me by running through my legs.

All I said was, "Hi, Dad!" as if I'd only been away to Rainbow Valley for the afternoon. I can hardly tell what happened then, except to say that I got a hug that was like to crush the breath from my body and I was very soon surrounded. I will not admit to crying (even though I did). I will never forget the sight of Mother's face — I can't describe it. She was very pale and her eyes were very big and I don't know whether she was laughing or crying but there probably needs to be a new word invented to describe it.

Susan went flying around the pantry and the cellar — apparently she had planned a "pick up" supper because she'd been very busy all day, and she just kept apologizing and apologizing for the food. Well, I intended to eat a good meal the next day, but right at that moment I doubt I could have choked down anything, no matter how ambrosial, so she might have saved her breath and her trouble.

Rilla called up to the manse and all your family came over and there was another round of glad greetings. I hardly knew Jerry with his brow unfurrowed - he looked so much younger I nearly asked him how things were at Queen's! Carl wears a patch over his lost eye, but he is not much scarred and after you notice the patch the first time, it ceases to be anything but an accessory.

The long and the short of it is that everyone is quite as pleased to see me as I am to see them. And if only there were one more person over at the manse, I might be able to say that I'm the happiest man alive.

I went over to see Jerry and Carl yesterday. Or rather, I tried to see Jerry, but Nan has him now and won't let go in a hurry. Carl has no such distractions, so we walked and chatted a bit. He seems solemn. I think perhaps I still harbored a little hope that everyone would be back to the way they were when we all got home again. But who knows what Carl has seen or done, and the loss of an eye is no small matter. I asked whether he was excited to begin at Redmond in the fall and he waited a long time before answering that he was, but with none of his usual cheerfulness. Perhaps he and I can chum around a bit this summer, seeing as we neither of us have any fairer companions to occupy our time.

Speaking of which, I guess it is true that Rilla is going to marry Ken Ford? (! ! !) I'm sure someone must have hinted at that to me in a letter but I must have thought it was a joke. Apparently not! What is the world coming to, with baby sisters running off to get married (and to Ken Ford?!). I imagine he is in for a rather lengthy discussion with Dad whenever he deigns to grace us with his presence, but I'm sure Dad doesn't know the half of what Ken used to get up to over harbour! I may have to have a little chat with Dear Kenneth myself.

Now, this is a lovely long letter and you can look forward to receiving more like it in the future as I have nothing to do with my time between now and the new term at Redmond except loll around letting Susan fatten me up. I walk down to the light every day, just as I used to do with Walter when he was getting over the typhoid. Bruce comes with me most days — what a fine, sturdy boy he has become! I can't carry him on my shoulders anymore, but that's down to him being so big and not any infirmity on my part.

I'm off to ask Rilla how she managed to survive four years of this maddening waiting (other than writing to Ken Ford, apparently). I hope she'll have some useful tips to help me pass the time. Shall I adopt an orphan? Organize a Red Cross concert? Learn to knit? If you receive a pair of woolly stockings from me, you'll know I've gone spare.

All my love and then some,

Jem

XXX

* * *

5 April 1919

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Shirley,

I was over at Ingleside this evening. Jem is home. You cannot begin to imagine your family's joy at having him there. Let me paint it for you:

Your mother sitting on the sofa, just staring at Jem as if she were  _afraid to take her eyes off him lest he vanish out of her sight_.* Your father joking and laughing and smiling like I've never seen him before. Susan tearing around the kitchen, fussing and serving all sorts of delectable things that nobody was eating because no one had any attention for anything but Jem. Rilla with her hands clasped in her lap, looking like she couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry and splitting the difference by trying to do both at once. Nan and Jerry talking over one another and dissolving into giggles and then talking all at once again.

Do you think your own welcome would be any less joyous? If you do, you are a fool. They miss you terribly and are waiting anxiously to hear from you. Susan asks about you each and every time I see her, without fail, and I really and truly cannot stand it any longer. I really can't.

You must write to them. Come home; don't come home. But write to Susan. I never thought you could be so cruel to her, whatever else you might do.

Carl

* * *

20 April 1919

Outside Paris

Carl,

I am glad to hear that Jem is home and that my family is happy to see him. Soon, Ingleside will be full of brides and babies and they'll all have more than enough to keep themselves occupied.

They might be happy to see me at first, but not for long. Everyone at home will get on fine without me. Really. They'll make their new lives in the new world and be safe and happy. I'd only make a mess of things by coming home.

I can't make my meaning plain in a letter.

Shirley

* * *

22 April 1919

St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London

Dear Mr. Blythe,

I am writing to inform you that there has been a recurrence of influenza at St. Mary's and that your wife has taken ill. She weathered the first of it well enough, but I regret to inform you that pneumonia has set in and she is very ill indeed.

I understand from previous conversations with Mrs. Blythe that you are a medical student, so I will tell you that there is involvement of both lungs, resulting in moderate hemoptysis, though no appearance of cyanosis as yet. We have no indication that her heart is affected at the present time.

Please be assured that your wife is receiving the best nursing care and I have every hope that she will pull through yet. Her friend Miss Cartwright was also ill, but is recovering and will soon be able to sit with her.

Your letter of the 11th arrived yesterday. I read it aloud to her and I believe it did her good to hear it. She is not well enough at the present time to dictate a response, which is why I am writing to you now.

If there is any change in her condition, I will write again.

Yours respectfully,

Sister Enid Marley, Matron

* * *

 

Notes:

* _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 35


	55. Inconsolable

**Inconsolable**

* * *

2 May 1919

Glen St. Mary PEI

Dear Di,

Jem has had a letter about Faith. She caught the flu working in the hospital in London and the Sister who wrote on her behalf says that she is very ill. She is alive, as far as we know, but we hear that she has double pneumonia and is not well enough to write or even to dictate a letter.

When the letter arrived, Jem and Dad shut themselves up in the library for a long while. They didn't let any of the rest of us read it, so I don't know how much detail it gave about her condition. I did hear Dad say  _cyanosis_  and remembered that woman you told me about whose lungs had been injured in the fire. I could not hear whether Faith had it or not. But you know how bad it might be.

I went with Mother up to the manse to tell the Merediths. Mother told them very gently, and emphasized that the Sister said in the letter that she had real hope for Faith's recovery. But no one can pretend it isn't a bad sign that Faith could not write herself.

It was a bit strange — Mother asked Dad for the letter to take it up to the manse, but he wouldn't give it to her or even let her read it. There is something wrong there, and that scared me more than anything.

Dad has ordered Jem to bed. The truth is that he is not yet as strong as he would like everyone to think he is, and he has not slept nor eaten since that letter came into the house. He won't see anyone but Dad, and I heard Dad telling Mother that if he does not sleep soon, he will force him to sleep with a good strong dose of paraldehyde.

Perhaps it is childish, but I have the most urgent desire to bury my face in a pillow and scream. It is so unfair! After everything we've all been through these last four years! All the misery and waiting and the miracle of Jem coming back to us. And now it's influenza?

All we can do is pray for her. We thought we were done living in fear of telegrams when the Armistice was signed, but it seems that there is no safe place and no safe time and never will be again. Everyone is doing all they can — Miss Cornelia has been keeping the Merediths in food and even the Methodist prayer meeting said a special prayer for Faith's recovery. There have been so many callers that I've had to start turning them away because they're exhausting us all. I know that people just want to show that they care, and it is heartening to see that so many love Faith and Jem.

All my love, Di. Please write to Mother. It is hard having anyone away from home right now, and we've had no word at all from Shirley in such a very long time.

Love,

Nan

* * *

5 May 1919

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Nan,

I have had a letter from Sylvia. She sends her apologies for not writing sooner about Faith, but it seems that she did not know, having only recently recovered from the fever herself. Her letter was dated the 23rd and she writes that Faith was still very ill then. Matron Marley allowed her to see Faith for a few minutes, and from her description, I think that we must just pray with everything we've got. Sylvia assures me that she will stay by her just as soon as they let her out of bed herself and write with any news, not trusting it to that old besom Marley. It's possible that Marley didn't phrase things exactly tactfully — she's always had a bee in her bonnet about the V.A.D.s. Maybe that's why Jem and Dad wouldn't share her letter with anybody else.

There is no vital news of Kingsport. I am in the thick of exams, but have every confidence that I will come out of them alright. Marie takes very good care of all of us. Emile and Claude spend evenings playing in the garden. The delivery company wouldn't take Emile back on, on account of his leg, but Dad called in a favor from a pharmacist friend of his and got Emile a job behind his new soda counter. He's getting along well there. I have assured them that they are welcome to stay as long as they like, but they aim to be in their own place by the time you all return for the start of term.

Aster House will be ready for you and Una and Sylvia and Faith. I don't mind sharing a room if we can all be together. Jerry and Jem will come for supper every night if you like — I hardly know how we would keep them away. Is Carl coming along? And Shirley, too, if he is home in time.

It will come out alright, Nan. Faith is strong.

Love,

Di

* * *

2 May 1919

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Shirley Blythe,

I had hoped that I would not have to write you. But as you have seen fit to disappoint the people who love you most, I cannot sit by any longer.

This is maddening, Shirley. I can't tell you how furious it makes me to watch you destroy something so incalculably precious. I think you will agree that I have never had a temper, but I am developing one now. There is so much death and misery in the world, and so many people who have lost their chance at love forever. To know that you are throwing yours away — I am trembling with rage as I write this.

Your parents and Susan are desperate to see you. You, Shirley. A dozen babies would never be enough for Susan when what she wants is you. You are irreplaceable.

It is a desperate season here. Probably you have not heard our news of Faith. She is in London, terribly ill with influenza that has become pneumonia, and Ingleside has gone as fearfully watchful as the manse. Faith ill and you missing; we are none of us strong enough to absorb so many terrible blows.

Leave all that aside, though. It is not the heart of the matter. There is one here who is inconsolable, however much I have tried. If you could only see what you are doing, you would not have the heart to continue.

You say that you cannot make your meaning plain in a letter, but I disagree. It isn't difficult. Just take your pen and say what you mean to say and say it plain. Is the RAF still censoring mail? If so, find an ordinary post office. They have them in France, don't they? If it makes it easier, you can write "Una Meredith" on the envelope. I'm not likely to run up to Ingleside and read your correspondence aloud there.

You owe an explanation. Pick up your pen and write it. Say plainly why you can't come home. Say plainly why it's better this way. I daresay I won't agree, but I am sick unto death of unspoken things that should never have been unspoken.

I will haunt the post office until I have your letter in my hand.

Do not disappoint me.

I send you all my love, and so much more than mine besides.

Una Meredith


	56. Thoughts Into Words

**Thoughts Into Words**

* * *

18 May 1919

Outside Paris

Dear Kit,

You know that I am not much of a one for words, but there is so much I would say to you.

I wish I did not have to. I wish I were home right now and we could just sit next to one another in our old spot by the water and not be required to put thoughts into words. Sometimes I think everything would be alright if only we could sit together like that again.

But then I think of coming home, of seeing you every day and knowing that we can never, ever have what our siblings have. Do you think I want to sit next to you at wedding after wedding after wedding? I do not.

It is too hard. I can't come home knowing that you can never really be mine. Would you, if such a thing were possible? After what you said to me the last time I saw you, I thought you would. But what could that ever mean for us? Paris was everything to me, but a few wonderful days are not a lifetime.

It's likely I'll be demobilized in a few weeks. And then what? Home to the Glen? To see you every day — so near and still so hopeless? To have every busybody drooling over my medals and wanting to hear about each and every one of my "kills"? To have Susan pushing every unmarried girl in the Glen into my lap? To stand up beside you someday and hold my peace while you marry someone else? I can't even bear the thought, let alone the reality.

Things will be better for both of us if I don't come home at all. You can stay in the Glen with your family and lead a normal life. Get married. Have a family of your own. You'll be good at all that. But I don't want to watch you do it. This way, no one will ever find out and you'll never have to worry about prison or Hell or any of it ever again. You can just rest and be safe and I won't put you in any more danger. I know what you said. I won't ever forget it. But things will be better for you if just let me go.

There was a moment in October when I knew I was going to die. Not someday; in a minute. My plane was going down, but I wasn't scared at all. Really. I was just  _relieved_. It would have solved everything, if only I had let it. That's how it was supposed to be, neat and tidy. But at the last moment I panicked and fought back and ruined everything. I woke up in the hospital to find it was all still an unresolvable mess, and wishing I had just died as I should have.

I'm sorry. I never spent much time imagining the future. It hardly seemed worthwhile. Now I must, and if this is the new world, there isn't much in it for us, is there? If we can't be together, I don't want to be anywhere near you. For both our sakes.

All my love forever,

Shirley

* * *

2 June 1919

Very, Very Far from Paris

Dear Shirley,

I remember very well what I said to you. Do you remember what you said to me? I won't forget it, not ever. The very idea is ridiculous. Go live a normal life? I have seen Paris as well.

Let me assure you of my love. I am astonished beyond words that you could possibly doubt it. A few wonderful days may not be a lifetime, but I have lived in those days since the moment we parted. And how can you say that we have had only a few wonderful days? I can count hundreds: days of quiet study and comradeship and the sweet and bewildering realization that you could possibly love me the same way I love you.

Or at least you did, once. Didn't you? It's true enough that we cannot have what others have. But I do not want what they have. I want you and nothing else. Is that plain enough for you? I do not know precisely what that means, but I know that it does not start with keeping an ocean between us.

Valid as your worries may be, I do not accept your reasoning. What does it matter if we have to endure a hundred weddings? Can't we laugh over them together?

Even if the Glen is too hard, we can still have Kingsport. Surely there is somewhere in the old city where we might elude our siblings. I know at least one is a true friend to us.

You gave me your wings; did you mean all that or not? I did. And I always planned on the long run. You can't possibly think that anyone would be even the slightest bit better off without you, least of all me. Safe? If this is safety, I don't want it.

Of course it will not be easy. I never thought it would be. But when was there ever a danger you wouldn't face? Whatever happened to  _The Count of Monte Cristo_? Perhaps you will remember that you once told me that the only true happiness is the one we must win.

Understand this: I am wholly in sympathy with your wish to be together somewhere that does not require me to articulate my feelings. Give me half a chance and you will not doubt me long. Come home, Shirley. Please.

Love,

Kit


	57. Preparations for Arrival

**Preparations for Arrival**

* * *

MARITIME TELEGRAM COMPANY  
VIA CHARLOTTETOWN  
FROM LONDON MAY 9 1918

JAMES M BLYTHE  
INGLESIDE  
GLEN ST MARY PEI

OUT OF DANGER RECOVERING WRITING ALL MY LOVE FAITH

* * *

9 May 1919

Glen St. Mary PEI

Dear Di,

Faith is alive. Jem got a telegram from her today: she is out of danger and is writing.

Oh, Di, what a week we have had here! It was just as if the war had never ended, and all of us going in daily dread of the mail and the telephone. Jerry says the Merediths have all been walking around as if they are living in a nightmare, though they are trying to keep up appearances for Bruce's sake. I went over yesterday and found Una crying in the old Methodist graveyard, and found I had no words to console her.

Jem . . . well, perhaps I should not write of Jem, and just tell you what happened when the telegram came instead.

This morning, Mother and Rilla were out in the garden with Susan, and Dad was on his rounds. I was the only one in the house except Jem, and he hadn't left his room for days and days. I was in the kitchen when the telephone rang, and it took me a moment to realize that I must answer it because there was no one else to do it.

I tell you, Di, the walk from the kitchen to the telephone was a hundred miles. And when I heard on the other end, "There is an overseas cable for James Blythe," my heart about stopped. I asked what the message was, but the girl on the other end didn't want to tell me. She insisted that I couldn't be James Blythe, and she was to read the telegram to him. I finally snapped and shouted, "Just read me the telegram!"

I should have thought before I yelled, because I was very loud and the house very silent. But the girl read it to me. It said, "Out of danger. Recovering. Writing. All my love. Faith."

I dropped the phone and started crying. Then I looked up, and Jem was sitting at the top of the stairs, just looking at me, completely blank. If I never see that look again, it will be much, much too soon.

I don't know how I managed to find my voice, because I felt like I was choking, but I managed to gasp, "She's alive!" and he just fainted right there. Luckily he went over sideways, and not down the stairs.

I went shouting for Mother and Susan, and we managed to get him back into bed while Rilla called all around the Upper Glen until she found Dad. Then she rang up to the manse, and Jerry says it was quite a scene there as well.

All the Merediths came over for tea today and we had quite a glad little party. Jem even came downstairs for a few minutes, though Dad ordered him back to bed and he did not put up much of a fight. Jerry is so relieved. We all are.

Come home soon, Di. I know the hospital needs you, but it would do us all so much good to see you, even for just a weekend.

Love,

Nan

* * *

10 June 1919

St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London

Dear Jem,

Thank you the peppermints. No, I have not forgotten them, nor the football game. We will have to make a point to go cheer on the Reds together in the fall, for old time's sake.

You don't need to write every single day, love. It's not as if I get the letters one at a time — they all come over on the same ship, so I get five or six all at once. I do love getting them, of course. But I am doing much better and no need to fuss. I've been getting up and making my bed every day for a week now, even if I do take a nap in the afternoon. It's the cat's life for me, prowling about a little at dawn and dusk, but mostly lounging in the garden or curling up in a chair while Sylvia reads to me. Novels, mostly, though sometimes she gets her hands on some of your letters and does an impersonation. It's quite killing, I assure you!

I had a letter from Una today, too. Dear Una. I am so glad that she will be coming to Kingsport with us. I don't know what she needs a Household Science course for — I doubt there's anything they can teach her that she doesn't already know, either from Rosemary or by instinct. But I will be awfully happy to see more of her. Let's be sure to find a place as close to Aster House as possible, even if it is only a little garret nook. I can live happily on the tiniest crumbs after all this, so long as we're all together.

To the question you have not asked, though it runs through every one of your letters. I do not know when I am coming home. Matron has given her blessing for both Sylvia and me to end our contracts as we are recovering and I am quite flush with both you and Father sending money to book my passage home (though of course I will repay his). But I do need to be discharged before I can travel, and am doing all I can in that vein. Soon, love. As soon as I can manage.

Now, find something useful to do with your time. Shouldn't you start brushing up on your chemistry again? Di won't thank you for attaching yourself to her labcoat tails. And I have yet to receive my promised stockings. Don't worry — Susan can help you set the heel.

Love,

Faith

* * *

15 June 1919

St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, London

Dear Jerry,

Don't show this letter to anyone. No, not even Nan. She wouldn't be able to keep a straight face.

I have cashed in some favors and pulled some strings and arranged to come home early. The doctors were concerned that I would not be strong enough to travel yet, but I have been up and about as much as possible to prove myself to them. I threatened to start working again if they wouldn't let me go, and that got them to agree fast enough. If I can keep up a good show, I should be shipping out about the middle of July.

I cannot pass up this opportunity to surprise Jem. But I will need your help to pull it off.

Here is what I want to do:

When I get to Charlottetown, I will phone up to you at the manse. Then I will take the early morning train home. You must meet the early train and collect me.

Have a boat waiting. I will need you to row me over to Gull Island and leave me there (better bring a picnic hamper and blanket as well).

When you have left me on the island, you must go get Jem and convince him to go for a sail with you. Get him in a boat and bring him over. I'll take care of the rest.

Don't tell anyone. If you need help making the arrangements, you can tell Carl and Una closer to the date — I trust that they both know how to keep a secret.

Thanks a heap, Jerry. I know I can count on you. And this will definitely be worth it.

Love,

Faith

* * *

28 June 1919

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Faith,

Are you sure that's a good idea? You're going to give the poor man heart failure. At least write and say you're coming home, even if you don't specify the day.

I'll do as you ask, but if you finally manage to finish him off, on your own head be it.

Love,

Jerry

* * *

15 June 1919

Southampton, Hampshire, England

Dear Mother and Dad and Susan,

I wanted to let you know that I have been demobilized and am in England. It has taken me some time to get passage home, but I will ship out for Kingsport in about a week. I expect to be home early in July. I will phone from Charlottetown when I get in.

I'm sorry I haven't written — I should have, and I'm sorry if I have worried you. Thank you for writing me anyway. I'm sorry I didn't reply. I see now that I have been very thoughtless.

I am looking forward to seeing you all soon.

Love,

Shirley

* * *

15 June 1919

Southampton, Hampshire, England

Dear Kit,

You're right. Every word. I have been so wretchedly stupid. I'm sorry for being such a coward and I'm awfully sorry for not writing earlier. I should have and I'm sorry. It's no excuse to say that I was afraid, even if it is true.

I ship out for Kingsport next week. Do you think you can ever forgive me?

Love,

Shirley


	58. Epilogue I: Gull Island Again

Epilogue I

* * *

**Gull Island Again**

* * *

July 1919

* * *

"Since when are you so wild about sailing?" Jem asked as he reclined in the bow of Marshall Elliot's little dory. "I seem to remember that you can barely float a cork in a bathtub."

It was a gorgeous summer day on the harbor, with frolicsome waves twinkling in the sunlight under an azure sky.

"That's why I have you along, Skipper," Jerry replied, adjusting the tiller. "Though if it comes right down to it, I've never sent a vessel to Davy Jones' locker, have I?"

"Fair enough," said Jem. "But where are we going anyway?"

Jerry squinted, pretending to survey the horizon. "One of these little islands out here. I found something there that I think you'd like to see."

"Oh, really?"

"And it's nice to be out on the water." Jerry turned his face toward the sky, luxuriating in the contradictory sensations of warm sun and bracing wind.

"Sailing, though? Not even fishing?"

"Carl and Shirley made off with all the tackle," Jerry shrugged. "I haven't seen them much since Shirley got home."

"I saw Carl this morning," Jem said. "He waylaid me when he saw me walking up the Glen street. He seems to be doing better. In fact, he was positively chatty. Walked with me all the way to Carter Flagg's store and then back to Ingleside. Did he ever tell you what's been on his mind?"

"No," Jerry replied. "I'm sort of afraid to ask. But he'll tell eventually, if he needs to."

"Are the two of them going to come to Kingsport with us when term starts?"

"Yes. I heard Carl telling Dad they were going to board together. That'll be good for them."

"What about you?" Jem asked. "Are you going back to the boarding house or are you going to try the residence hall at the law school?"

"I was going to ask you the same. Do you want to look for a place together?"

Jem sighed. "I wanted to wait to talk to Faith. She should be home soon. Her last letter said she'd been discharged from the hospital and expected to be on a ship within the week, so really any day now."

"You wanted to talk to Faith?" Jerry asked, surprised. "About where to live?"

Jem grimaced. "I'm not saying anything more until she gets home."

Jerry nodded, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from giving away the game.

"Couldn't room with you anyway," Jem was saying as he flicked lazily at a piece of seaweed clinging to the seat. "I require respite from your incessant studying. And Nan says that you snore now."

"Pfffft. I wish. It will be a long time before she has any evidence in that vein."

Jem cleared his throat. "You know you're mad, right? Three more years?"

"The truth is I think it will be good for us," Jerry admitted quietly. "You know we've never spent more than a summer together before now? Not since I went off to Queen's at least. Always in different places, always writing letters. But Kingsport will be different. We'll get to know one another again. And we won't squander that time like we did when we were kids."

Jem laughed. "Maybe  _you_  squandered it. I remember making quite excellent use of it, actually."

"I don't even want to know," Jerry muttered.

"Probably not," Jem conceded.

"I suppose we'll fill up the time with imagining our lives as they should be," Jerry sighed. "It will be good to feel like we're actually working toward them again. I didn't really let myself imagine during the war. But now, I feel like I can start cherishing all those hopes again."

Jem could not suppress a grin at this earnest speech. "Sounds like Nan's been rubbing off on you, hasn't she?"

Jerry snorted, dipped a hand over the gunwale, and splashed Jem. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

They were nearly there.

Jem wiped water from his face and looked around. Ahead of them, a rocky, spruce-covered island loomed over the waves. It was small and uninhabited, with a crescent of pebbly beach and and a long natural breakwater of half-submerged rocks.

"We're going  _there_?" Jem asked, arching a brow at Jerry.

Jerry began taking in the sail. "I told you. I found something."

Jem took up the oars and began to row, careful to skirt the lurking hazards that had spelled ruin in bygone days.

They were getting very close now, and Jerry was beginning to feel the strain of keeping a straight face.

Jem rowed steadily, his back to the beach.

When the hull of the boat scraped bottom, Jerry leaned forward, placed a hand on Jem's knee, and looked him in the eye. "I'm going to tell you two things, Jem. Number one: I'll be back with the boat about an hour before sunset."

"What?" Jem asked, perplexed.

"And number two: try not to have a heart attack when you turn around."

"What?"

Jem looked to one side, then the other, then froze when a voice called from directly behind him.

"Hi, Jem!"

Jem spun around, goggling.

"Oh! God!" he gasped.

In an instant, Jem had lurched over the side of the dory and into the knee-deep water. He waded toward the beach, stumbling through the surf toward Faith, who stood at the waterline, arms outstretched, her skirt snapping in the wind.

A few steps more and he reached her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her shoulder, sobbing.

Smiling, Jerry retrieved the oars and started pulling for home. He would put up the sail in a minute, but he needed to face the beach for a few strokes in order to clear the rocks.

Jem and Faith stood where the waves met the beach, clinging to one another and swaying slightly. Jerry was too far away now to hear if anything was said, and he was glad of it. He averted his eyes, trying to give them a bit of privacy.

In another dozen strokes, Jerry was clear of the rocks and began to hoist the sail. He glanced back toward the beach, just for an instant, and saw that they had collapsed to their knees, still entwined, all their strength used up at last.


	59. Epilogue II: Per Verba De Praesenti

Epilogue II

* * *

**_Per Verba De Praesenti_ **

* * *

August 1919

* * *

The sitting room at the Glen St. Mary Presbyterian manse was littered with crates and boxes: packed, half-packed, and waiting to be packed. Jerry and Nan were supposed to be finishing the job, stowing Jerry's law books for the trip to Kingsport. Term wouldn't start for another couple of weeks, but the residence hall opened early and Jerry wanted to be ready to go as soon as Rilla's wedding was over. Faith and Jem were already in Kingsport, hunting for an apartment they could afford, having given repeated assurances that yes, they would be back for Rilla's wedding, as if anyone could possibly forget that such a blessed event was soon to be celebrated at Ingleside.

Jerry and Nan should have been packing the books, but each had found a volume that demanded just a brief peek and settled down beside one another on the sofa to give them their due. Thus, one half-hour and another had slipped past in companionable silence with no noticeable progress toward departure.

Cautiously, Jerry lifted his eyes from William Blackstone's  _Commentaries on the Laws of England_  to glance sideways at Nan. She looked so like he had often imagined her — soft brown hair pulled back over her slender neck, a book cradled in her dainty hands, feet tucked up under the pale gold of her skirt — that Jerry caught his breath.

Nan was entirely engrossed in her reading. Pearly little teeth gnawed at her lower lip and she rubbed a thumb over the base of her left ring finger, forward and back, forward and back, making the tiny, perfect diamond splash rainbows over the sitting-room wall. As Jerry watched, Nan brought the book closer and closer to her face until her nose nearly touched the page.

" _Per verba de praesenti_ ," she muttered under her breath.

Jerry squinted at her. "Sorry?"

Nan looked up, hazel eyes wide, as if surprised to find Jerry still seated beside her.

"You whispered something," he said. "Maybe Latin?"

Nan blinked. "Oh. Yes. I was just trying to translate a legal term."

"What are you reading?" Jerry asked, bending to see the cover of the slim, mustard-colored volume.

"Umm . . ." A delicate blush rose in Nan's cheeks. "It's . . . ummm . . .  _Marriage Laws of Canada_."

"Is it now?"

"I am merely attempting to decipher a term," she replied with lofty disdain.

Jerry set aside his Blackstone and shimmied closer to Nan, resting an arm over the back of the sofa above her shoulders. "To be sure," he smiled. "Why don't you run it by me?"

"You may need a bit of context," Nan said, clearing her throat. "This section is called  _Clandestine Marriage_ , and explains the laws in place before Hardwicke's Marriage Act of 1753."

Jerry found it difficult to concentrate on what she was saying, mesmerized as he was by the perfect, pink bow of her lips. But Nan was reading now, and he blinked hard, mustering his attention.

"Prior to the Reformation," she said,

_both the Christian Church in Europe, and the temporal authorities throughout Europe, were practically unanimous as to what constituted marriage; and the general law of Western Europe before the Council of Trent seems clear, and the mutual consent of competent persons to take one another only for man and wife during their joint lives, was alone considered necessary to constitute true and lawful matrimony, in the contemplation of both the Church and the State._

By the time the words "true and lawful matrimony" left her lips, Jerry was bending low over Nan's shoulder. He took up the next paragraph himself:

_In Bacon's abridgment it is said, "a contract_ in praesenti _, or marriage_  per verba de praesenti _; as 'I marry you'; or 'you and I are man and wife'; is by the_ civil law _esteemed_ ipsum matrimonium _, and amounts to an actual marriage which the parties themselves cannot dissolve by release or other mutual agreement, it being as much a marriage in the sight of God as if it had been_ in facie Ecclesiae _" . . . This was not only the civil law which prevailed in France, but it was also the law of the Christian Church in the West for over 1,500 years._

" _Per verba de praesenti_  . . ." Nan said. "By words in the present tense? Does that mean . . ."

Jerry half-stifled a snort. "It means you can't do it by letter. Only face-to-face."

Nan ran her finger down the page. "It says that this was the law until Hardwicke's Marriage Act of 1753. No witnesses necessary. Just a mutual vow."

"No witnesses?"

"There seem to be rather a lot of flaws in that system," Nan mused. "What was to prevent people from committing bigamy? Or lying and saying they were married when no one could contradict them? Or marrying on a whim?"

"Do you want to do it?"

Nan blinked. "Do what?"

"Marry one another."

Her eyes flew wide. "What? Now?"

"Yes." Jerry thought his heart must surely have been audible at twenty paces. " _Per verba de praesenti_."

Nan cast a befuddled glance around the sitting room at the half-empty crates, the piles of books, the general jumble of imminent departure.

"It wouldn't be legal," Jerry murmured. "Not under modern Canadian law. But . . .  _ipsum matrimonium_."

Nan opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Jerry took her hand in his, finding the slender fingers wonderfully warm under his own. "Only if you want to, Nan.  _Mutual consent_."

She met his gaze, a cast of skepticism still shadowing the hazel depths of her eyes. "You're serious?"

"We'd still have to wait for an official wedding," he said, bringing his other hand up to cover their intertwined fingers. "Three years."

"Two years and nine months."

"What?"

"You will graduate law school in May of 1922," Nan said. "That is two years and nine months from now, not three years."

Jerry couldn't help grinning. "Ah, yes, I see the distinction, counselor. And you wouldn't want an August wedding? Like Rilla?"

"I'm quite fond of May," Nan said, smiling sweetly. "But . . . you aren't really serious, are you? Not about . . .  _per verba de praesenti_?"

In after years, Jerry would remember smiling then, but the truth was that the smile was only filling up his insides, not quite making itself visible in that most serious of serious moments.

"Nan," he said, squeezing her hand, "I don't want to leave again. Not without making things right between us."

"You're not leaving," Nan protested. "Or if you are, so am I. I'll only be at Aster House and you can come for supper every night if you like. I've heard back from the school board; they want me to fill in for . . ."

"I know. I meant . . . I don't want to leave this room."

Nan searched his face, eyes glinting green and gold, hunting out any scrap of insincerity that might lurk there. Satisfied that there were none to be found, her lips curved into a cautious smile. "What do we have to do?"

Jerry consulted the little book in Nan's lap, finding the line near the middle of the passage. He read it over twice just to be sure. Then, adjusting his hold to take one of Nan's hands in each of his own, he looked into her eyes and said, "Nan Blythe, I marry you."

Nan swallowed once. Then again. For a moment, the sitting room was perfectly silent.

Jerry squeezed her fingers. "What's the matter? Tennyson got your tongue?"

"No." Nan clutched his hands as if she never intended to let go. She inhaled once, then nodded. "Jerry Meredith, I marry you."

She barely got the words out before he kissed her. The mustard-colored book clattered to the floor as Jerry seized Nan around the waist and pulled her into his lap, the kiss dissolving only because he was smiling too wide and she was giggling too hard.

"You and I are man and wife," he whispered when he could get the words out.

Nan kissed him back, encircling his neck with her slender arms and letting him fall back into the cushions, pulling her over on top of him.

[Several minutes omitted.]

Nan sat up, regaining her own cushion and attempting to pat her hair back into some semblance of propriety. It was no use, and in the end she took the pins out entirely, letting it fall over her shoulder like a velvety stole.

Seeing her like that — flushed and shy-smiling, with her hair coming down and her skirt noticeably rumpled — did little to slow Jerry's galloping heart. Two years and nine months, was it?

Nan bent to retrieve  _Marriage Laws of Canada_  from the floor. She glanced back at the open page, started, and sat up straight. "Wait, Jerry. There's a footnote."

"A footnote?" He sat up, wrapping an arm firmly about her waist and resting a cheek against the cool fall of her loose hair as she explained.

"It's an excerpt from Hardwicke's Marriage Act of 1753. It says,

_Be it enacted, That if any Person shall solemnize Matrimony in any other Place than a Church or Publick Chapel, where Banns have been usually published . . . every Person knowingly and willfully so offending, and being lawfully convicted thereof, shall be deemed and adjudged to be guilty of Felony, and shall be transported to some of his Majesty's Plantations in_ America _for the Space of fourteen Years_.

"Transported?" Jerry squinted. "Does that mean . . ."

"It means they ship you off to the colonies in the dead of night."

Jerry shrugged. "Well, that's alright, I guess. I didn't think very much of Europe."

"And you don't mind being a felon?" Nan giggled.

"Not a bit. I quite like it so far. Only . . ."

"Only what?"

Jerry made an elaborate show of consulting the footnote. "Is it only fourteen years? Can you stay longer if you want?"

Nan dropped the  _Marriage Laws of Canada_  back onto the floor and took Jerry's face between her hands. "Stay as long as you like," she said between kisses.

"Willful offender."

"Outlaw."


	60. Epilogue III: An Evening Fly

Epilogue III

* * *

**An Evening Fly**

* * *

" _I suppose our grandson will be taking his sweetheart out quite casually for an evening 'fly' in his aeroplane._ "

Gilbert to Anne, after reading a letter from Shirley,

 _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 26

* * *

July 1919

* * *

Shirley Blythe peered expectantly out the train window.

_Where is he?_

He scanned the crowd at the Glen St. Mary station. It wasn't the whole town, like it had been on the day they had sent Jem and Jerry off in 1914, but still, there were an awful lot of people.

Shirley looked up and down the car, searching for whoever else must be on this train. He hadn't seen any other returning soldiers when they boarded, but perhaps he had overlooked someone.

But no, another glance at the jubilant gathering on the platform revealed only faces he knew. The Ingleside crew, of course, and the denizens of the manse. And there was Miss Cornelia and Mr. Eliot, Mary Vance and her Miller, even big, jolly Norman Douglas and clever, sharp-tongued Ellen talking with Miss Oliver.

_I shouldn't have called from Charlottetown._

To slip in, unnoticed, maybe on the evening train — that would have been better. But Shirley had been a miserable correspondent all year. He'd made them all worry unnecessarily and he regretted that sincerely. He couldn't just show up and surprise Susan in the kitchen. Calling ahead had been a kindness and an apology of sorts.

_Where is he?_

Shirley spotted Mother and Dad, arms around one another, searching the train windows. Jem was there, laughing with Jerry, who held Nan's hand, and Ken Ford, similarly attached to Rilla. Shirley spied Susan and Di and Bruce Meredith and . . .

There. There, on the platform, lurking at the back of the Meredith delegation.

_There. Right there._

He was so close, just on the other side of the glass. It had been so long since Shirley had seen him, touched him. But only a minute or two now.

_Does he even want to see me?_

Shirley had berated himself for cowardice all the way across the Atlantic. It really had been chicken-hearted of him to send that letter at Christmas: _I know everyone wants me to come home. I'm just not sure if I can_. What had he been thinking? That it would be easier for both of them? That everyone would get along fine without him? He still wasn't completely convinced he was wrong about either. But to go so long without writing . . . well, that had been lily-livered and no mistake. He deserved disdain, even fury. Is that what he'd get?

_I'll find out soon._

Shirley straightened his RAF tunic, smoothing the wings sewn over his heart, echo of a paler hand in Paris. Heart hammering now as it had then.

One deep breath and another. Determined to face whatever awaited him out there, Shirley lifted his duffel bag onto his shoulder and stepped through the door toward home.

***

The platform was bright. Dazzling. After the dim interior of the train, Shirley's eyes needed time to adjust to the full sunlight of a gorgeous summer day in Glen St. Mary. Before they could, he was enfolded into an ecstatic embrace that was nearly too forceful for comfort.

"Hi, Dad," Shirley said, returning his father's hug.

Gilbert Blythe relinquished his son, but only so that Anne could have her turn.

"Hello, Shirley," she said, eyes shining. She didn't embrace him at once, holding him at arm's length for a moment so that she could see him properly, her view impeded only by her welling tears.

"Mum."

She was older. Thinner. Was she unwell? When Shirley wrapped his arms around her waist, it seemed that they could have gone around twice.

No time to ponder that now. Susan was on him, and no decorous glimmer shone in those steadfast eyes. Instead, she was a veritable rainbow: beaming smile shining through the tears that streamed freely down her worn and wrinkled cheeks.

"My boy, my boy," she repeated, patting his cheek affectionately. "You're home!"

_Dear Susan. Mother Susan._

And then the rest were there, surrounding him, Jem and Di and Nan and Jerry and Rilla and Ken, all hugging and jostling and greeting so that Shirley didn't even have to say anything, only nod and smile and return what handshakes and back-slaps and cheek-kisses were offered him.

Then Di stepped aside and there he was. Not smiling. Jaw set. It wasn't the patch that arrested Shirley's attention, but the single blue eye, peering up through black lashes to meet his gaze.

_Oh._

Carl was just as Shirley remembered him, imagined him, dreamed him. Golden-brown hair, highlighted with honey as it always was in summer. Trim waist and compact figure same as ever, though his posture was slightly stiff, whether with nerves or military discipline Shirley could not tell. The eyepatch was new of course, but Shirley had long ago incorporated it into his imagination, and it was not the reason he staggered.

_. . . some are baffled, but that one is not — that one knows me . . .*_

It took every emergency reserve of the much-vaunted Blythe self-control to prevent Shirley launching himself across the the platform. He could have done it. Caught Carl up in his arms and and kissed him before everybody, just as Jem and Faith had done a lifetime ago. If Carl had given him any sign of encouragement, he might have, and damn the consequences. But there could be no whoops for them, and no cheers, so they held themselves apart, hesitating even to approach one another for the appropriate greeting of long-separated friends.

_I've hugged everyone else. Even Ken. Wouldn't it would seem more suspicious not to?_

Shirley was acutely aware of every eye upon him as he stepped forward and offered Carl a carefully calibrated embrace.

At first touch, he noted how rigid Carl held his own body, every muscle tensed, every sinew taut. There was precious little warmth there, though Shirley could not tell whether it was fury or fear of conflagration that rendered him cold. Rather the latter, he thought as a single sob — felt, not heard — clattered through the hollow of Carl's chest like a stone tossed down a dry well.

There was no time, not now, and no privacy, not here. Under cover of a comradely slap on the back, Shirley bent and whispered, "Midnight." Carl would remember the place, wouldn't he?

_Of course he remembers. But will he come?_

Tearing himself away, Shirley's knees betrayed him and he passed it off as if he had tripped. Carl had turned his blind side, and there was no possibility of anything more at the moment. If anyone were suspicious that Carl was not gladder to see his friend, well, Carl had been rather silent and morose all spring, hadn't he? Even uninjured men had come home different.

Una stepped forward then, steadying Shirley with a gentle hand on his arm. She was not much changed — still the wistful, black-haired maiden, a slight flush of pink on her marble-pale face. There was no reason for Una to dam her tears, so she did not.

"Shirley!" she smiled, clasping his hand and holding his gaze with a desperate earnestness. "I can't tell you how glad we all are to have you home."

He squeezed back, admiring her phrasing.

_She'll know everything, then._

"Una," he said, hoping Carl was listening. "I'm awfully sorry it took me so long. Can you forgive me?"

***

By the look of things, Susan had been cooking since the day Shirley left France. Maybe since the day he left  _for_  France. The sideboard groaned with potatoes dressed three different ways, green, egg, and chicken salads, and an orchard of pies. A casual observer could be forgiven for mistakenly thinking that shortages of sugar and butter and meat were past concerns rather than present realities. How Susan had managed to arrange this unlooked-for profligacy was a question destined to remain shrouded in mystery for all time.

Despite celebratory china and silver, the meal had the air of a picnic. Exuberant nosegays of Rilla's device gladdened every place setting and all the windows had been flung wide to admit sunshine and salt-fresh breeze. Jem and Jerry had carried in an extra table so that everyone could sit together in the dining room and they were crammed in, elbow-to-elbow, as if proximity were the main thing necessary to bring them back together.

They ate and chatted merrily, Shirley doing his best to look pleased and offer satisfactory answers to the questions slung at him from every quarter.

"How was the weather on the crossing?"

"Were there many other Canadians in the RAF?"

"Do you think you'll start at Redmond in the fall?"

"What sort of aeroplane was your favorite?"

"Would you like to go for a shore picnic tomorrow?"

"What did you think of Paris?"

Shirley flicked a glance across the table to the place where Carl picked at a stagnant pile of green beans on his plate. A sick lurch of longing caught him in the gut, blotting out the world for a moment.

"Shirley? Dear?"

Beside him, Susan held a pitcher of water, ready to refresh his glass.

"Oh. Thanks, Susan. Sorry," he said, meekly surrendering the cup.

"You must be exhausted," Susan clucked. "Traveling all that way and no proper food. Here, take another slice of ham."

After dinner was dessert and after dessert was tea and after tea was more tea and all the time talking talking talking. Finally, just when Shirley felt he could not hold himself upright a moment longer, Una stood, declaring that she had a headache and would Carl please be so good as to take her home?

"Heavens, yes, we've been here all afternoon," said Rosemary Meredith. "You'll all want rest and quiet for a while without any guests hanging about."

"Nonsense," chirped Anne. "You're all family, or near enough to make no difference."

"That's right," said Ken, stretching an arm around the back of Rilla's chair. "Pretty soon there will be enough name-swapping that no one will be able to tell Blythes from Merediths or vice versa."

"Or Fords," Rilla teased. "Ooooh, maybe Shirley could marry Persis and Carl could marry Di and then we'd all be mixed up beyond any reckoning!"

The laughter following this suggestion covered the exit of Una and Carl, white-knuckled hands gripped tight as they disappeared into the hall.

"I'm exceptionally pleased to hear that you are all family," grinned Gilbert. "And for your first act as members of the clan, I suggest that you help to clear the dishes!"

***

In the moonless midnight, Shirley felt his way down the slope and into Rainbow Valley. He knew the place well enough, but it had been years and he would have to trust that memory would lead him as unerringly through the mundane world as it always had in dreams.

 _In paths untrodden,  
_ _In the growth by margins of pond-waters . . ._

Past the Tree Lovers and Walter's fairy bells, past the quiet pool where fat trout dozed beneath latticed roots, past the bend in the murmuring brook to the reed-screened clearing that had always been theirs, farther up the darkened valley than others cared to wander.

When he reached what he thought was the spot, Shirley paused in the darkness, perfectly still.

"Hello?"

He fumbled in his pocket for a matchbook and kindled a tiny flame.

"Hello? Kit?"

In the next instant, the match was obliterated by a hurtling body. Shirley fought to maintain his balance as he was engulfed in a crushing embrace, strong arms wrapped so tightly around his neck that it felt like drowning. Not brittle now, Carl seemed to be trying to pour himself into Shirley along his whole length, conforming his body to every contour.

Shirley felt his own tension rush away in freshets, absorbing Carl as he was himself absorbed, mingling as two merged waves, indistinguishable one from the other.

_Here. Right here._

After a long moment thus immersed, Carl drew back and pounded his fist against Shirley's shoulder in a series of half-hearted blows that diminished into a caress.

"Not . . . not coming home?" he gasped, twining his other hand into the collar of Shirley's shirt. " _Christ_ , I could punch you!"

Shirley smiled, surprised at the blasphemy, and though it was too dark to see, the smile was in his voice as well. "If you must," he said. "But kiss me first, won't you?"

* * *

Carl Meredith stood on the pebbly stretch of harbor shore, peering skeptically at the fragile-looking wings of the Curtiss HS-2L. Thin support beams showed through their translucent skin, reminding Carl irresistibly of a great, white bat.

"Is it safe?" he asked.

"Not particularly," Shirley answered.

"But you can fly it?"

"I think I can handle a surplus reconnaissance plane," Shirley scoffed.

Carl gulped. "It just looks very . . . precarious. Like it might break in half at any moment."

Shirley chuckled and slapped the blunt hull. "This dumpy old thing? It's like riding a cow."

Carl was not convinced. How could those criss-crossing wires possibly be sturdy enough to hold the wings in place? Weren't the seats awfully close to the propeller? And could it really take off from the water?

Shirley jumped up onto the fuselage and pulled the crank to start the engine. The propeller stuttered and spat through a puff of gray smoke, doing nothing to soothe Carl's jangling nerves. In a moment, though, the propeller found its rhythm and began to purr evenly.

Shirley adjusted his helmet, then turned back and offered Carl a hand up into the plane.

Carl hesitated.

Shirley kept his hand steady, but a flicker of uncertainty flitted across his face. "Can you trust me?"

Carl bit his lip, but he had already cast his lot.

"You're . . . not going to crash it, are you?"

A slow smile chased away the shadow of doubt. "That's Jem you're thinking of. No crashes; I promise."

Carl looked up once more. Not at the delicate wings, nor the uncertain propeller, nor the stretch of harbor that seemed an impossible sort of runway. All he saw were Shirley's brown eyes, with their faint sparkle of amusement, and Shirley's broad palm, stretched out to him.

Carl took a deep breath, pulled the strap of his helmet tight, and gave Shirley his hand.

* * *

Notes:

*Walt Whitman, "Among the Multitude," Calamus,  _Leaves of Grass_

* * *

Dear friends,

Thank you for reading! If you have gotten this far, that means you have devoted substantial time to this story, and I am truly grateful for your engagement.

I have a sequel that features Carl, Shirley, and Una (1919-1942), but it needs some work before it is ready to post it on AO3. If you enjoyed _Glen Notes_ and _Dispatches_ and would like to read Part III ( _The Happiness We Must Win_ ), let me know in the comments so that I can gauge whether there is an audience for more of this particular interpretation of LMMontgomery's works.

Yours truly,

elizasky


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